Bookmoms
Children are made readers on the laps of their parents.
She reminds me of someone else. Excellent posture, moving with the grace of a dancer and clearly very at home among the stacks of books. A fiction-reader based on her current orbit.
I don’t intend to luridly stare, but her ensemble is hard to ignore: teal toenails (matching fingers) and white flip-flops, royal blue yoga pants (painted on), and a draping T-shirt that hangs gently from her chest—just short enough to act like a curtain over her torso without revealing skin. Modestly immodest.
From a distance, I thought her much older. Up close, she looks barely 30, if that. She speaks gently to a 12-year-old girl curled up in the easy chair next to me, bottled up with a book. I want to glance at the title, but feel like I’ve already used up my karmic grace on recording mom.
Young mothers still have the energy to be moms and retain a semblance of their own identity. She’s trying—perhaps too hard—to stay beautiful, put-together. Many simply throw in the towel. (I think of the full-bodied women staffing the shelves, the checkout, the coffee counter—tired faces, hair tied back with function, not flair.)
The young mother continues to drift through the aisles, flipping through displays and kiosk stands. Her hair is pulled into a bun, held loosely with just the right number of deliberate stray strands. No doubt carefully assembled.
I wonder what instilled a love of books in her little girl. Maybe it was Dad. Or a great teacher. Or maybe Mom curled up beside her when she was small, and now she still seeks that same comfort and escape between the book boards.
No child has ever gone wrong seeking safety in stories.
And God bless the mothers who made their love felt through books.
#reflection #essay #memoir #journal #osxs #100daystooffset #writing #books
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