Most women, I think, grow up dreaming of having a baby. They think about it all the time, starting with a fantasy about what their husband will look like, where they will meet & fall in love, what type of fairytale princess wedding gown they will wear & the flowers they will carry…then where they will make a home. Depending on their husband’s profession, these women may be envisioning a plush apartment in the city, or a colonial with a picket fence in the suburbs. They may even be aspiring to a grand greek revival mansion on the river. I can identify thus far. But when they start thinking about the little ones…and they’ve got the names picked out & what order they may have them, & how they’ll decorate their bedrooms…well, that’s where my dreams always ended & another one started.

As surely y’all know about my proclivity to devouring books, it should come as no surprise that I dreamed of my own library. Walls of books. Stacks & shelves towering on every available surface, too many to count. Books of all types: old, classic, leatherbound editions; mass produced paperback fiction; history books; college textbooks; journals; coffee table photographic books, you name it. I wanted them ALL. I wanted a red wall, & a warm rug, & a leather chair. I wanted a Tiffany lamp & a box of kleenex when emotions were running high. I wanted a cozy blanket & a candle to burn.

And guess what?

I got it.

I’ve had such a room since I cleaned out the spare bedroom about four years ago & pulled up the carpet to reveal the honey colored hardwood floors underneath that I bruised my knees on for two weeks. I would come home from work & pull staples & scrape at rubber carpet mat that was stuck to it from years of being covered up & walked on. I scrubbed with pine sol & brillo pads & wax to get it presentable. I grunted & groaned & strained to bring in my bookshelves, followed by my collection of books & then I bought more. I have hauled in more as the years progressed & my cases are jam packed & the shelves sag under their weight. I am proud of my library. It is like my life’s work. Laugh all you want, & I know it’s not the same as creating another human being & raising it up right, but I’m not destined for that. Here is home. And here I have sat all day, nestled in my cocoon of books & favorite possessions, & I have been content & happy. It has been quiet, no lollipops stuck in anyone’s hair, no pancakes to fix, no shoes to be tied. If this sounds lonely, I have painted it wrong. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to fix supper, or take a shower, or go to bed. I want to stay right here. I don’t get to enjoy this room nearly enough. It never fails to bring me peace. Build your happiness with what you may.