Lost and Found

My search ends in an impossibly old New England library, hewn stone, round turret. Wheelchair ramp inartfully added beside dangerously worn steps. It smells like a library: pages crackle when they turn; bindings lay flat; remnants of readers wander cramped stacks. Books, magazine racks and computer tables shoulder each other for space.

Zagging through ever narrower spaces to a dark corner, by the radiator snuggled up to flammable books, I find it. Green cover worn so the threads show, corners soft as a baby blanket. I open the book, glowing rays escape, engulfing me. Back home after all these centuries.