Some read books to remember.

I reached my hand into the familiar darkness that enveloped my backpack,
Slipping my fingers between
yellowed notebooks
and forgotten pencils
to grasp a memory in solid form.

As the leather that enclosed paper portals to the past
Ascended out of the deepest recesses of my dilapidated schoolbag
I couldn’t help but feel a sense of
Home.

The only way I feel that now is through the pages of the journal,
Each alabaster sheet lined with emotional braille for my fingers to explore.
Explore the time when I:
Spilled some juice on my journal during a camp,
the paper wrinkled to attest to it.
Needed spare materials for making my art projects,
the frayed edges of torn paper remain to attest to it.
Had sunk into the deepest cellars of an affection that would never be reciprocated,
the heart-shaped holes in the pages reflecting the holes put in my heart
lingered to attest to it.



I kept reading through the night,
Filling my clock with convivial memories of scintillant days and ethereal nights
Where moments of happiness and peace met like how the ocean washes onto the shore
And before I knew it, the last grains of time streamed through my fingers
And sleep took me into his mellow embrace.  

But even in the fortresses of the dream world, evil still slithers to find me
It crawls on its underbelly, sneaking towards my bed high up in the tower
And there, it throws me out the window,
And I plunge into another world.

She is hunched over a paper at the desk,
A smile fills her face as she signs the document.
Dread wracks my heart, and I crumple into a corner to watch it unfold.
I see her rise like a dragon almost slain in battle,
A victorious look adorns her face as she leaves her seat.

Then I burst in.
Little, unaware, nine-year old me.
With tears straight from my soul cascading down my cheek, I ask if I’ll ever see my father again.
Rage replaces triumph as she storms over to me, then strikes me across my face with a typhoon of force.
She screeches “never talk about” before nearly choking on my father’s name.
Little me crumbles into the floor, becoming the rubble that once was a happy child,
While my mother stomps towards an alcohol cabinet that would soon become full of empty bottles.

I, the spectator, shudder heavily in remembrance.
The only thing worse than a nightmare is a memory.
I wake up in my bed, sunbeams gleaming through my curtains.

I reach my hand into the familiar darkness that envelops my backpack,
Slipping my fingers between
yellowed notebooks that are filled with inhumane insults about being an abused kid,
and forgotten pencils that were used to write letters where I bled my troubles onto paper,
to grasp a new book.

As the paperback that enclosed an adventure to a new world,
Where the family of the lead character gave more love than they did punishment,
Switched places with a journal covered in old, worn leather,
I couldn’t help but feel the need to stick my nose right in there and get reading.

Some read books to remember.
Some read books to forget.