I always knew I was destined to be a reader.
While I can’t quite recall the moment when letters became words and words became stories, my memories are scattered with still-frame snapshots of me reading. I can see myself in my mind’s eye, stretched out on my twin-sized bed, completely engrossed in yet another Judy Blume book. Sometimes I would sit cross-legged inside my closet, having created a cozy nook of pillow and blankets. Other times you might find me sitting in the corner of our guest room, a slice of solitude where I could read uninterrupted and hidden away.
I credit my mom for instilling this love of reading in me as she was always reading a book. Her favorite place to read was in the corner of our sectional sofa, where she would curl up with a blanket while our dog, Mandy, a Poodle/Pekinese/Lhasa mix, would dutifully snuggle up against her leg. She had stacks and stacks of novels in her bedroom closet and would read anything from murder mysteries to tawdry romance collections. She would sometimes subscribe to the Book of the Month club until they sent her books that no longer held her interest. She was also a familiar face to the store clerks at Waldenbooks in Regency Square Mall.
It’s not a surprise that I developed a love for libraries at an early age. While there was only one library in our local area, when I would visit my Grandma Payne, I would often ask her to take me to libraries in her district. I treasured my library card like a sixteen-year-old treasures a driver’s license. That little piece of plastic had the ability to transport me anywhere in the world. Reading was a perfect escape from many of life’s challenges.
Decades went by. I continued to read, as did my Mom, and we passed this love of reading down to my three children. Their childhood summers were spent visiting libraries and participating in story-time hours, each child having their own bookshelf in their room overflowing with books of all kinds: baby board books, large print books, hardback children classics and softcover young adult novels. We always purchased books from the teacher’s Scholastic magazine flyers and often donated books to their classrooms. There were books wrapped under the Christmas tree and given as birthday gifts, too.
As I read, I also wrote. Diaries, journals, even scraps of paper captured my thoughts as I wondered if one day I might create a book someone else might read. It was a whisper of a dream I held tightly to my heart, not daring to share with anyone, lest the fragile bubble of my imagination pop and disappear.
Then came the dreaded day in June when my mom was diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer. The doctors told her if she didn’t have any medical intervention, she would only have a few months to live. She looked at them square in the face and said, “You do whatever you have to do – I have a trip to Boston planned for August and I am not cancelling that trip!”
My mother’s love for her Bostonian roots almost rivaled her love for reading. She could talk for hours and hours about the Boston Red Sox and the New England Patriots and knew all their stats as well. Her northern accent would thicken whenever she spoke with someone from Massachusetts. I can still remember her teaching me how to say “Pahk yah cah in Hahvahd Yahd” (Park your car in Harvard Yard) to impress my grandfather when we visited.
My mom was a fighter. She immediately started chemo and counted the days until her trip. In August, she made her way to Boston for an extended weekend visit with her husband, Bob, and was able to see her beloved Red Sox play. She visited Quincy Market, local restaurants, and made time to connect with loved ones, reveling in the memories of her youth.
Twenty months after her favorite trip to Boston, we sat at her bedside in the hospital, saying goodbye one last time.
How does a child thank a mother for the gifts she instilled in her life? How does a lifetime of love come down to moments and memories? How does a legacy live on?
By making a promise to live life to the fullest and be all you are meant to be.
In April 2017, I made a promise to my mom that I would become an author, one day adding my book to the bookshelves and backpacks of others. In January 2018, I submitted my book proposal to Dave Burgess Consulting, Inc. and in February 2019 I held my published book, A Passion for Kindness, in my hands for the very first time.
In April 2019, two months after my book was published and two years after I had made that promise to my mom, I traveled to Boston and stood at the steps of the Boston Library. It was my first visit to this space and I was awestruck by the magnitude of this public institution – where anyone could walk inside and be surrounded by millions of books.
The marbled archways and mosaic-tiled ceilings instantly transported you to a time where aesthetic quality and ambiance were valued and revered. Hand-painted images covered the walls with small framed informational plaques nearby. One could easily mistake these grand halls as part of an exquisite art gallery. Even the books blended in with the decor.
As I climbed the sleek, marble steps that rounded from the entrance to the first floor, what I saw next caused me to break the hushed silence of the library with an audible gasp. Standing right before me was the entrance to Bates Hall.
Bates.
I couldn’t believe that I had traveled all the way from Virginia to discover, in the most beautiful library I had ever seen, in a town that my mom adored, a magnificent room that shared the same name my mom carried as part of her identity from birth to eighteen years.
It was meant to be.
I walked inside and stood still, allowing my heart and soul to be swept up away in the brilliance of such a magnificent space. There were rows and rows of dark, hardwood tables illuminated by the glow of small green lamps, so many, in fact, I caught a giggle in my throat as I imagined it like the entrance to a bookworm’s version of The Emerald City.
I sat down with slightly trembling fingers and took out my laptop. I wanted to write in this hallowed space. I wanted to create words and sentences and stories knowing I was in Bates Hall. I could feel my mom’s spirit wrapping around me like a well-loved blanket, worn with age, but treasured with memories.
After writing for a bit, I took out a copy of my book that was resting inside my backpack. One of my favorite things to do as an author is to leave copies of my books in places that I visit, always waiting for the whisper on my heart to direct me where to leave it. I knew, without a doubt, that I needed to leave my book here.
I autographed the cover page with my favorite blue pen, then wrote a message on a pink post-it note that I placed on the front of the book, so the person who found it would know that it was meant for them. I shared a little bit about my mom and how this act of kindness was in her memory.
It was a random act of kindness I will never forget.
Today marks the fourth year my mom’s birthday has passed without her here to celebrate. She didn’t get to experience the joys of me achieving a life goal of becoming an author. She wasn’t able to share in the excitement of seeing my book on the shelves at Barnes & Noble. She never got to hold my book or read the stories inside.
But somehow, with little moments like these, I am reminded that she’s never quite far away. I am her only child, the legacy of a life that continues to scatter seeds with each passing year. I know she would be thrilled to discover my book available for checkout at this beloved Boston Library.
Thanks for the signs of love from above, Mom.
They make me feel one step closer to heaven.
A special thanks to The Community Foundation for funding the R.E.B. Award for Teaching Excellence that sponsored this trip to Boston, MA.
