I was around five or six years old, I’m not quite sure now. I had just moved to my current hometown, and my family wanted to explore. My mom had decided that going to the library would be the best way to develop a child’s mind, and now, I completely agree with her. When she had first brought the idea up, my siblings and I were very skeptical, thinking that being stuck in the library was definitely not the way we should be spending our summers. We thought that summers should be spent at places like Disney World or camping. The idea of being surrounded by musty old books was definitely not that. My mother, having none of our complaints, took it upon herself to drag us to the library and sign us up for its summer camp. Little did I know that it would be a place I’d frequent in upcoming years.
I was ushered into a carpeted room, where there was a windowed divider separating the walkway from the general study tables and the row of computers. Ahead was a pathway to a play area for small children. To the right was the information desk, and further were bookshelves. This is what they call the children’s section. I remember stubbornly standing there, not wanting to take another step. With the look my mom shot me and the sweet smile the librarian shined, I reluctantly went toward the other children.
Even now, I still go to that library. I would hide out in that corner on the second level, the corner that overlooks the children’s section. Sometimes, I would reminisce about those days when I became enthralled by the magic of storytelling and fiction. From genres like folklore to mystery, I tapped into the lives of thousands of characters, and I became increasingly passionate about reading. And now, as I write this blog, I am sitting in that same corner, surrounded by books and overlooking that children’s lair.
