by Sarah Davis
Because when I was ten, I was only allowed to read one. Because it was the King James Version. Because when my mom ran errands in town she would drop me at the library. Because my father never knew. Because in every section, my fingers sliding across so many plastic covered spines, I felt hope. Because they whispered there is more, there is more, there is more. Because the librarian saw me and asked if I’d like a library card and gave me one without my parents permission. Because I smuggled a copy of A Wrinkle in Time home, read it in secret, at night — and when my father found out he grabbed the 2x4, and told me to bend over. But it didn’t matter. Because that story stayed put. Because that story mattered. Because the world was beautiful, just as I suspected and people had written about it. Because I didn’t want to be worth more than a ruby, I wanted to be infinite. Because all of our stories, even the ones we make up, are true, somehow. Because eyes open, so awake in the night, I was waiting for Mrs. Whatsit, and she was whispering; stay angry, little one. Because every story after that was a west wind, behind me, pushing me forward, until I was free.
Sarah Davis writes micro prose and creative nonfiction. They live in Minneapolis.
Emerge Literary Journal 