Books

It all started
With a blanket.

Her grandma had sent it
As a present
For her soon-to-be
Baby brother.
Her mother hung it
Where he would be lying
In the cradle.

It had the alphabet on it,
And at close-to-three,
It fascinated her.

Bright,
Colorful letters.

Her mother sat and taught her
The names, rubbing the baby's head
Through her stomach.

She learned all the letters,
Tracing them on the fresh,
Crisp fabric.
She learned to read soon after.

She started with little books,
But was up to chapter books
Before she started school.
Her teacher had to provide
Special options,
Lest she get bored and build
Towers out of pencils and tape.

Within years, she was tired
Of children's books,
I-Can-Read books, those sort.
She wanted big heavy books.

She experimented with Poe,
Scared herself stiff,
And struggled through Macbeth.
A few years later, she would try
Pride and Prejudice,
Jane Eyre,
And would teach herself fancy words
With bright,
Colorful letters.

Then she got even older,
Desperate for stories she could
Never find.

She asked for notebooks,
For pencils, for a dictionary
And thesaurus,
Lest she bore of tired words.

And she penned them out,
In bright,
Colorful letters.