I can’t remember the moment I fell in love with books.
But I know it was by lamplight.
A warm orange flush against the wall.
The shadow of a Mum, and a girl, and a book, and a bed.
A memory for all the senses.
A craving for the comfort of night.
Are you there with me?
Mum’s soft voice, her words scattering into the twilight.
Like fireflies.
Waves, fizzing onto custard sand.
Winged chairs, lifting into the setting sun.
I feel it like I feel yesterday, that love.
That magic.
Little girl me sped through the days, just to meet the night again.
Just so the story could go on.
Nothing’s changed, not really.
Except maybe the shadows on the wall.
The little girl I used to be: somewhere along the line, her shadow twisted and popped.
And grew.
The lamp lit voice: it’s not Mum’s, anymore.
It’s mine.
Colouring in the hearts of my own babies.
I can’t remember the moment I fell in love with books.
And maybe the when doesn’t matter.
Maybe the why doesn’t matter, either.
It’s the who and the what and the how that will never leave me.
The lamplight.
The two shadows, big and small.
It’s the truest story I know.
And it’s all about how I fell in love… for the very first time.
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