she & i
by Marisa Siegel
In a library that doesn’t exist anymore, I opened a drawer of small yellowing typewriter-printed cards. She found her way to the musty back of the row in the back of a corner and climbed on the creaky stool and pulled it down. Stacks have always been a comfortable, orderly escape. See Also: Locked bathrooms, reading in a bathtub. A hotel closet. Up ancient stairs into a tiny old classroom. See Also: The library I love most in the world. She was not in that library. The paper in the book was thin; I can nearly still feel it. She sat and discovered an entirely new way of breathing. An entirely new place, an entirely new world. I didn’t understand nearly anything that first visit with the thin-papered book. She kept those ten lines in her mind forever. I live unsettled. She is not a child, has almost no time for libraries. Still, I wait for sunlight place yes.