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“Please Bury Me In The Library”
His breathing was slower today the gaps between breaths longer. But still he challenged me. Raising his hand he motioned I should read the lines of prose again. My father, an avid reader who valued words like other people valued money or art was still hoping for a miracle.
As usual when I read, the lines blurred and words jumped about on the page.
Sighing, he let his eyelids drop. The room was silent except for the whirring of the monitors chronicling his demise.
Bury me in the Library Bury me in the Library
His breathing was slower today the gaps between breaths longer. But still he challenged me. Raising his hand he motioned I should read the lines of prose again. My father, an avid reader who valued words like other people valued money or art was still hoping for a miracle.
As usual when I read, the lines blurred and words jumped about on the page.
Sighing, he let his eyelids drop. The room was silent except for the whirring of the monitors chronicling his demise.
His breathing was slower today the gaps between breaths longer. But still he challenged me. Raising his hand he motioned I should read the lines of prose again. My father, an avid reader who valued words like other people valued money or art was still hoping for a miracle.
As usual when I read, the lines blurred and words jumped about on the page.
Sighing, he let his eyelids drop. The room was silent except for the whirring of the monitors chronicling his demise.
” Have you asked can I be buried in the cemetery in the grounds of the Town library?”
Self-reproach made me lie.
” You’re sure,” he queried.
His doctor’s tap on the door saved me from lying again.
Stepping into the corridor of the nursing home I leaned against the wall.
As a child I had been to the old Victorian building that housed the old part of the town’s library (and the adjoining graveyard) many times with my father. He was convinced if I was exposed often enough to the feel and smell of the books that filled the long lines of dusty wooden shelves I would become as much a lover of books as he was.
My father recognized none of my discomfort with wordy books. Undeterred at my lack of enthusiasm he would lead me up and down aisles where readers clutching library cards squeezed past each other. Their bodies so close in the ribbon of walkway between the walls of towering bookshelves that their bodily smell seemed to linger long after they had gone.
Between rows and row of tired looking book spines he would meander trailing his finger; searching for that one book, that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow he was certain sure one day he was going to find. That magical moment when I would pluck from his fingertips the book he proffered and become captivated by the wonder of its words.
He lived in anticipation of that golden moment long after I stopped going with him to the library. Long after I left home; long after I graduated and he retired. The conviction that one day I would become a confident reader never left him.
A woman walked past, glanced my way, hesitated and then stopped. “Are you Ok?”
I straightened. “My father…doctor is with him now.”
“There’s a family room. Follow me,” she said starting off. “It’s a combination of a prayer room and reading room, “she explained leading the way into a small library.
I sank into a chair.” I’m not much of a reader.”
She gave me a questioning look but made no comment.
“Or, a prayer,” I heard myself say. My gut tightened. Why had I said any of that? What kind of an idiot will she think I am?
The woman got up and studied the titles of the books. “Are you, Sam, Mr White’s son?”
“Yes. You know my father?”
“Your father requested someone to read to him. I’m Evelyn. One of the services offered by the Town Library is to provide readers for the residents here.” There was a pause as if she was considering her next words.
“He talks a lot about you.”
I felt the heat rise in my face.
“He tells me you do excellent work with your hands.”
““I design book covers,” I said, hearing the terseness in my voice “I’m afraid I am a big disappointment to him. He would have like me to follow in his footsteps. He was a Librarian before he retired.”
“Just like me,” Evelyn smiled.
The penny dropped. My father had mentioned something about the librarian from the new library bringing him books.
I looked at her. She looked nothing like the stern faced Miss Craig who had been my father’s colleague. She had worn twinsets and glasses that pinched her nose. At the slightest sound she would take away the offending person’s library card and ban them from future entry to the library. I had been terrified of even coughing in her presence.
This woman wore figure hugging jeans that showed off her legs and hips and a tee shirt that blazed the name of the local football team across her breasts. She was the least looking librarian I had ever seen.
Evelyn caught him looking at her. “I dress a little more…conservative, when I read to your father,” she said with a low chuckle, guessing his thoughts.
“I was on my way to meet my boyfriend when I remembered I needed to speak to a member of staff about the poetry day tomorrow. We have it in the residents’ dining area. Why don’t you come along?”
“I don’t think…my father…you see…but thank you.”
She stood to go. “You’re wrong about your father, you know. He is very proud of your achievements….despite the reading thing.” She let her words die away when she saw his embarrassment.
Leaving the nursing home the following day on my way to the local presbytery to check if there were any available plots in the old cemetery, I heard Evelyn’s voice relating Robert’s Frost’s poem,” The Road Not Taken “I slowed my steps. I had liked listening to the teacher reciting poetry at school. On impulse I took the seat near the door.
The desk nearest the door had always been my favourite place in English class.
My father’s eyes were closed when I entered his room later that evening. I was surprised to find Evelyn there listening to news items.
“Recordings of this week’s sound bites from the local papers, “she murmured. “The library has a team of volunteers who produce it once a month for people with sight loss…and dyslexia. I thought your father would like to hear it too.” She studied me for a moment. I thought she was going to raise the question of dyslexia but instead she asked me had I eaten.
I shook my head. Eating had been the last thing on my mind. I had been too busy trying to make good the lie I had told my father.
When I had got to the presbytery the priest was out. His housekeeper was friendly; talking about how helpful my father had been when she was a schoolgirl and needed specialised texts.
When I asked about the plots in the old cemetery behind the library she said she thought the graveyard had been extended when the rear of the old library had been demolished
My heart had soared. It was perfect. My father would be buried in the very ground where the old bookshelves he loved to browse had actually stood.
When the young curate arrived back he had been short-tempered and unhelpful suggesting I use the new graveyard on the other side of town. Mentioning my father had requested to be buried near his beloved books had not had the slightest effect on him.
Evelyn looked thoughtfully at me as I voiced my disappointment.
“I lied to my father and now I don’t know if there are plots in the old library cemetery or not.”
“How long is it since you have been in a modern up-to-the-minute library,” Evelyn asked.
I looked at her in confusion.” What has that to do with…?”
“You use computers for your book cover designs, don’t you?”
I didn’t want to be vulgar but Evelyn was beginning to piss me off.
“I need to get back to my father,” I said, rising.
“There is a computerised site map of the demolition and renovations of the old library. It will show how much ground was released for use as a graveyard. It is late night opening tonight. We can check it out right now if you’re willing to come to the library with me.”
Pushing open the library door Evelyn switched into librarian mode. Sensing the change I felt the old tension of the presence of all those wordy books closing in on me. Sweat gathered on my upper lip. For a second I was back in that narrow passageway between the shelves.
“You can find anything on here,” Evelyn was saying logging on to the nearest computer.
I glanced surreptitiously at the other library users. Some were browsing the brightly lit shelves all clearly marked with different categories and book genres. Other users sported headphones and from the movement of their hands and body were listening to music. There was no evidence of any Miss Craig type librarian or dull tired looking books. Everything seemed bright and fresh.
“Here, see for yourself,” Evelyn said moving off the seat so I could sit down. Lines, diagrams and plans I excelled at. Within minutes I had located where my father would like to be buried – in what had been the History section. Hearts beating like a drum I pointed it out on the map to Evelyn.
“There are two plots. Which do you think he’d like best? If you decide we can book it online right now,” she prompted.
I sat back in the chair. Things were moving too fast.
“Maybe he will recover. He has been as sick as this before…”
Evelyn was running the curser over the site map again.
“There were six plots to begin with. What if…when your father…if you wait, the last two plots may be taken?”
“Leave it,” I heard myself say.
It was Evelyn’s turn to look perplexed.
“You should book one of those plots. I thought that was what you wanted,” she said as she dropped me off at the nursing home again.
“It doesn’t seem right, burying him amongst the rubble when there is a fresh new graveyard,” I mumbled.
Sitting at my father’s bedside, Evelyn’s words kept going round and round in my head.
“I thought that was what you wanted”, she’d said.
My eyes fell on the CD recording Evelyn had been listening to earlier.
“What I really want is to be able to read for you, without faltering, before it’s too late,” I murmured to the inert figure in the bed.
I knew now the library had more than just books. Strange as it seemed, I had never considered that before.
Next day I joined the Library.
Using the digital programming on its computers and my skills as a graphic designer I created a story around my father’s favourite topic – history. With Evelyn’s help I practiced until I had perfected every word.
It was to be my father’s elegy. I recorded it and played it for him as he slipped further away from me.
As the pallbearers placed his coffin on top of the supporting wooden planks in the old cemetery I recognised the salvaged ends of the wooden bookcases.
Stepping forward I delivered my tribute to my father without faltering.
Did he hear it? I believe he did.
My father had realised his miracle. He had found the pot of gold at the end of his rainbow.
END
Gemma Hill Writeyou Writeme 