As a child, I used to love to be in my grandparents library. There was a small ladder there, so that I could take books down from the shelves. I would take them over to the window seat to read in the summer, and in the winter I would curl up in the big chair in front of the fireplace, warm and cozy.
As I got older, I did my homework in this room. I even began to write short stories, taking the images out of my mind, and placing them on paper. This was helpful, because once on paper they no longer haunted me. They lived in a world of their own, and left me alone.
I eventually left my grandparents home to live in the city. I still visited often, and spent most of every summer there, but my life was in the city. By this time I was a writer in my own right, making a living from my words. The images that I placed on paper came from my imagination – they were creations of my own inner self. They were powerful, but not frightening.
That was the power that the library gave me – the power to leave those haunting images behind, and walk in worlds that were gentle and supportive. I no longer think of the gun held in my father’s hand as he shot my mother, and then himself. They were self absorbed people, and I never really was a part of their world.
(c) December 2011 Bonnie Cehovet