My mother was a librarian, so I’ve always felt some sort of fondness for the great establishment full of books. It’s amazing how the loves and passions of people you know can instill love and passion inside of you.

One of my favorite childhood memories is walking through the big doors of our library, eagerly heading towards “story time.” Sitting cross-legged on the floor with the scratchy 1980’s carpet biting my legs, I would become completely engrossed with the book being read.

Since I practically grew up in the library, it’s no shock that it still feels like home to me. Even now that I’m in college, I find myself sneaking back to the children’s wing of my hometown library. Maybe from nostalgia or leftover childhood longing, I can’t help but return. The librarians all know me by name. They watched me grow up. I’d like to think they measure my age in the books I’ve checked out of the library. Starting with picture books my mother would read to me, through easy read chapter books, novels, mysteries, and all the way until now. Somehow, these librarians never mind when I break routine and they catch me perusing a Nancy Drew mystery or a Junie B. Jones book.

So now I sit in my community college library, writing this entry, and smiling to myself. I have a free hour. I have nowhere to be, and no one to meet. So I picked a place where I knew I’d fit. I picked the library. It’s completely quiet, except for that indie playlist I like to listen to and pretend it’s the soundtrack to life. The books here are formal, stiff, and important. Somehow, I don’t mind. I see the little section of picture books behind me. Maybe I’ll look there when I finish writing this. If you’re wondering why someone is ardently reading children’s books in the middle of the DCCC library, have no fear. She simply found her home.