Every inn here boasts a name, a symbol of prestige but mine remains small in that sense – much like myself.
The cottage I call home is a weary, perched at the edge of a village that is as unremarkable as its abode. Its walls have surrendered to a drab gray over the years. The roof, sagging under the burden of relentless winters droops like the tired shoulders of an old man. The chimney leans precariousl, as if trying to stave off its collapse. Inside, the air is thick with the musty scent of damp earth and the silence is laden with the quiet despair of a family worn thin by hardship. Each creak of the wooden floorboards whispers tales of struggles, of secrets and sacrifices into every step.
Outside, a solitary tree stands, its gnarled branches reaching toward a sky that has forgotten its blue. The road leading to the city is winding through the landscape like a deep scar. In the distance, the city looms with its towering skyscrapers and bright lights. Amidst this harsh, unforgiving world, the library stands as an oasis, a sanctuary for me. It resembles a castle built of books, each volume offers refuge from the world outside.
Each shelf groans under the weight of countless lives. In the quiet corners, there is a girl with scrawny hands and a heart full of longing.
Our life is one of sustenance, with bread and water always in short supply. Mama sends me to the city to fetch provisions. I lug heavy sacks of bread for my siblings – Mia, Daphne, and Dewy. The weight of these sacks nearly drags me down, causing me to stumble and weep. Yet, there is a strange comfort in it, for each trip to the city brings me closer to where I truly belong – the grand library. I am free to touch the books with my dirt-streaked hands, savoring every texture and memorizing each crease so I can relive the moment once I get back.
Before returning home, I allow myself the luxury of opening a book – just one. I turn the pages gently, as if handling delicate feathers and immerse myself in the world of Madeline. I lose myself in a world of adventure. As I leave, I picture myself as the queen of a world I may never truly know, living in a grand castle. Each day, I return late and each day, I am met with the soft reprimands from my mother’s tender hands. “Where have you been, June?” she asks, knowing full well where I’ve gone. She ends up giving me only half of the bread, a reminder of the privileges we cannot afford.
As the days drag on, one morning, I am jolted awake by the shrill voice of my father, shouting at my mother. He clutches a bag whose contents are hidden from view. Fear grips me but I am powerless. I set off again on my bicycle, gripping the handlebars tightly. Today, I do not dare touch the books, consumed by thoughts of my mother.
As I look around the library, I am disrupted by a vision. It is my mother bustling about the cottage with brisk energy yet every movement is laced with heaviness. My mother, in a faded apron, tends to the fireplace as if trying to ignite a warmth that could dispel the coldness lingering in my home.
Then, as usual, she is seated at the worn wooden table, guiding Mia, Daphne, and Dewy through their lessons with an unyielding patience. Her hands, once gentle and nurturing now are worn and firm as she helps them with their homework. She corrects their errors with an encouraging smile though only I can sense the sadness in her eyes. The lines on her face deepen as she wrestles with the endless tasks.
Then, her tired hand stirred a pot of stew with a vigor that seemed almost out of place in the dim kitchen. The smell of the stew fills the air. She carefully ladles the food into bowls. Each spoonful is a labor of love.
At the fields, she bends over the soil, planting seeds with precision. Her once youthful vigor has faded, leaving her movements slow. Her face, etched with deep lines, reflects a lifetime of exhaustion. Her eyes carry the weight of countless struggles. The back that once stood tall is now hunched. Each step she takes through the dirt is heavy, a weariness that has settled into her bones.
The weight of the bag seems light compared to the heaviness in my heart as I cycle back.
As I return, my mother does not strike me this time. Instead, she taps my hand gently.At dinner, my mother and I share a solemn silence, while my siblings chatter and giggle.
At the stroke of two, I slip from my bed, careful not to disturb anyone. I creep to the living room where the box awaits.
As I open it, tears stream down my face once more. Inside lies a copy of Madeline, with a simple note on top: “Happy birthday, June.”
