the yellow spine

Bryan Milstead

– ROUGHLY 7 YEARS AGO –

Beams of light crawl through the partially open blinds of

the library window. Outside, ivory-colored dogwoods

follow the rhythm of the summer zephyr,

swaying

in irregular

movements. The sound of nearby cars slowly

rises to a crescendo, then immediately

fades away.

Summer has arrived,

bringing many victories to my younger self: warm weather,

exuberant afternoons at the pool, and visits to my local arboretum.

Some days, however, I sought comfort and tranquility, surrounded by books.

I recall being transported into Cam Jansen’s world of mysteries and resonating with

her insatiable curiosity on a personal level. Magic Tree House allowed me

to explore the deepest parts of my imagination,

with each of Jack and Annie’s adventures filling the cracks

of my young mind.

I walk into the library alongside my mother. Gusts of cool air gracefully encircle

my face before I plop down onto a short, plastic chair, adjacent

to the front entrance. Nowadays, its juxtaposition to an enormous,

emerald-green sofa seems almost comical. I didn’t notice details

like that when I was younger and sometimes still don’t.

However, there’s something so calming and placid

about the library, that almost heightens my senses and subdues

the disorientations of my mind.

Maybe it’s the gentle clicking of keyboards, parallelistic

to raindrops hitting the ground, or

an earthy smell that books possess,

reminiscent of wooden board games, mingled with a unique blend of

paper, ink,

and memories.

Scooting the chair a few feet forward allows me to have

an almost panoptic view of the shelves. These were skyscrapers

of knowledge; like the “Empire State Buildings” of literature.

My eyes begin to browse the colorful array of books, sporadically

searching for another quest to embark on,

another mystery to unravel.

From a distance, a librarian regards me with a soft smile,

carrying a medium-sized stack of books.

The laminated covers crinkle in the

crook of her arms, as if each novel is

alive, and calling out to me, yearning to be read.

I watch as she places the books in their rightful places

among one another. Worn, wrinkly, and faded would all be acceptable

adjectives to describe their physical appearance, but

as the common literary idiom goes,

“never judge a book by its cover.”

My legs move faster than my mind as I

swiftly stand up, enthralled by the freshly shelved books.

Librarians are highly skilled builders. They know where

each brick needs to fit so that our skyscrapers stand tall and robust.

Concrete and rebar? Unnecessary.

Deep, underground, steel foundations? Pointless.

It was merely the stories readers were told, italicized, underlined, or bold

and the substantial impact on our emotions

whilst dismantling preconceived notions,

that held these structures together, stronger than ever.

I notice Roald Dahl’s “Matilda”on the shelf.

Having read this story before, I firmly acknowledge its presence amongst the neighboring novels.

Its spine is a distinct yellowish hue,

treading the fine chromatic line between icterine and lemon.

To me, this color is bright and lively, much like Matilda’s personality –

and just as recognizable as the day

I started reading it.

As a young, impressionable child, I carried the whimsical belief that

consuming enough literature would grant me telekinetic abilities,

homogenous to Matilda’s. Though I never ended up gaining such powers (one can still hope!),

her resilience inspired me, her positivity I admired

Above all, Matilda was brave

Brave for Miss Honey, standing against the despicable Miss Trunchbull,

a woman who ravaged hearts and dignities with the rage of a hurricane.

Brave for challenging the injustices her parents brought upon her,

their neglect an overcast that obscured the depth of her radiance.

Brave for protecting her friends and fellow classmates,

even when the eye of the storm

seemed nonexistent.

In that moment, I found myself reflecting upon how I had displayed courage.

Not to the extent of the aforementioned heroine, perhaps, but

nevertheless possessing some meaning.

It was as if I could feel sparks of this emotional surge

ricocheting through my body, the catalyst of an immensely powerful reaction.

I realize now that it wasn’t just Matilda who kindled

a light inside of me. It was the likes of every book character I have crossed and will

cross paths with –

Magic Tree House’s Jack and Annie,

Cam Jansen’s Cam Jansen,

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’s Charlie Bucket,

Wonder’s Auggie Pullman,

Front Desk’s Mia Tang,

Piecing Me Together’s Jade Butler,

Hunger Games’ Peeta Mellark,

and so many more residents of the literary skyscrapers.

Each nourished my spirit in some form,

adding their own touches of color to a canvas made of

self-esteem, sentiment, and personality,

amalgamating while still leaving plenty of space for

Matilda’s yellow.