I switched on the light, sat on the bed and sinked into my thoughts. Normally I would open one of the books that were resting near my pillow, hungry for attention, but this time I decided that my thoughts can produce lines a book proudly hides between its covers.
Somewhere far away there was a little house, with a stream running through its yard, and a tree was planted nearby.
Old lady used to live there, a writer she was. She died a year ago. I peeked through the window and saw one of her books sitting on the chair near the fire, its pages open waiting for a reader to come and savour the words. I didn’t think anyone lived there now, yet the fire was still burning in the corner, and a warm pot of tea was at the table, ready as if the house was waiting on someone; a guest perhaps.
I entered, hesitantly at first. The door squeaked, making my heart pause, before it relaxed into its usual beats. There was no one around, only me. The birds were singing outside, it is springtime in that little town, and they were busy making nests. I sat in the chair taking the book into my arms. It was a big, sturdy one, with hard-covers, embroidered even. What could it be about? I marked the middle, noting the page where the book was open, and then curiously I looked at the front. “Ancient Tales of Oliver Mackleby”, hundreds of stories were written in this book. They were like fairytales, though real. It’s hard to explain. I must first read a few, before I can tell you more, but I sat there, near the fire, as I entered the world of stories, and was lost, as if the book became my temporary home.
© Iva Beranek (Dublin, 12th January 2016)