Memories of here with my mother
Did we sit and read, look at pictures?
Each book another color, different binding,
faded, new, embossed.
Love for words sacred source
a place with books always
a haven
a heaven.
When pain and hunger clawed
she lost herself in words
crawled into the pages
under the flyleaf.
Will I tell her story?
Will I tell my own?
Each book another color
Walls of books surround us
I transcribe the echoes of her whispers
write our stories
and am
Happy
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