by

Tinker Massey

Shots fired!… Man down… More shots…Sedately he walked to the stairs, paused, then sat down hard in a padded chair. He fumbled with the bullets to reload the chambers and then sighed as a student worker slowly talked him out of the gun. He was confused and deep in a chaotic nightmare. What had happened? Someone was talking. What gun? White hot flashes ran through my mind and I was sent reeling into my childhood…

Someone was talking. Yes, I wanted to ride on the book truck. Yes, I wanted to help put the books on the shelves. Ooh, but they were so large and black and heavy. How was it possible? Step by step, each book received its final resting place and we were done. I looked around to see all "The Boys," my grandmother’s pet name for her students that she housed and tutored and fed cookies in the wee hours of first light. They marveled at my strength at four years and my ability to place the books correctly. I loved the feel of the books and the smell of old leather as it slipped from my hands to the shelf. It was my passion to shelve books…a true challenge for the young and adventurous. I could never forget those days, because we also visited Great Grandpa David in the nursing home after work was completed. A perfect day for one so young and full of the newness of life. I would climb on his bed, hug him so tight, and proceed to tell him all the things I had done; pinning pictures on his wall to make sure he would remember all the stories till next time we visited. That day was the last I remembered of him. We didn’t go to the home anymore. Instead, we said goodbye at the church and the cemetery. How green and luscious the grass…fragrant flowers filled the air with their unforgettable aromas on the light breeze and Memie was quiet and still, only moving enough to squeeze my hand as someone lowered his box. I brought one last picture and placed it on his resting place, as if he could see it and laugh at my silly drawings of elephants and dogs. I wanted him to remember…to remember…to remember…

Someone was talking. Yes, I was ok. Yes, I wanted some water. And, yes, I wanted to get out of there. None of us was able to move…just watching as they took the Director out on a stretcher…as they led David away in handcuffs… as staff stood silently in the pall of an April morning wondering what had happened. The smell of old leather books and sulphur filled my mind and I was not aware of the differences those events made in my life. Time has a way of turning back on you when you least expect it and rainbows are very hard to find on those darkened days. Libraries are peaceful places, so the phrase goes, but people are a different story…as I remember…remember…remember…