I expect a lot from you
My blood starts rushing, double speed. Weaving itself through my body, pulsing -reminding me
of just how alive I am and just how much more alive I’ll feel so so soon.
I rush around. Hit the standards first. Funny how the standards change. As a teenager, I’d scan the shelves for a never before read bio of DiMaggio. Maybe a Mantle if I was lucky. But there was always a Berra. Always. Yogi, I
could rely on.
Then later, when those heroes died – faded – disappointed
Religion. The Christian section waiting in earnest- sitting patiently to disperse their timeless wisdom, unequivocal answers. So certain that this section would be it forever. What more could there be? Pulling up a pillow to make it safe, cozy, me and G-d. I’m done, thankyouverymuch.
And then it stopped. It wasn’t sudden, there wasn’t an afternoon where everything changed. But gradually. The bell would ring on that door and the rush didn’t come. I sauntered over, already exhausted.
And then women. And later LGBT. And then later Chicano/latin@ sections, much of which I realized didn’t exist. And there were no LGBT folks in the Christian section. And there were no latin@s in the LGBT section.
And there was no me anywhere.
And then? Walking slowly through the fiction. Walking slowly, waiting, anticipating. Needed so badly for something to call my name, to heal me, to break me, to salve me, to complete me, to call me their own.
My eyes scan, not as anxious in the rush before. Nah, this is sacred. A ritual of longing and belonging. Waiting patiently for that spine to call to me and perhaps even more importantly, for me to respond to it.
And I make this silly transaction. Dumb money for pages that very well might save my life.
And I get home, stamp it.
Make sure it’s nestled in the right section in right alpha order. Perfect.
And I walk to the library and do it all over again.