Reading My Father

Abstract

As I walk the two blocks from my home to the Columbia library, I remember going to the public library with my father. It was just one room, a large room on the second floor, above a paint store. The librarian was portly, rigidly corseted, except for the doughy flesh on her arms, which was visible when she wore a short-sleeved dress. She was uniformly, constantly displeased. She never looked happy when we took out books. We could tell she would have preferred that the books be left on the shelves, untouched, unopened, only thought about.