My parents built a sanctuary out of ink and binding,
a house where libraries lived both upstairs and down.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves holding the weight of worlds,
every spare inch crowded with a quiet, infinite landscape.
There were heavy lexicons and columns of history,
leaving no excuse for an unanswered mind.
But beneath the rigorous architecture of the schoolwork,
the true inheritance was waiting in children’s bedrooms.
Towering bookcases standing guard beside our beds,
every shelf stacked tight with a private invitation to escape—
sailing away where the wild things run,
or drifting high upon a giant peach.
The rooms have changed, but the geography remains.
The greatest wealth they ever passed into my hands was the quiet freedom of the page.
Courtney Bosworth's Blog 