The Library

Come in, come in.
Your eyes are darting around the expansive room, not knowing where to land.
You can smell the pages of the books that surround the room on shiny, vibrant mahogany shelving.

Each shelf is labelled, each volume holding memories from my life I have written about.

Please, look around. Allow your feet to sink into the deep shag of the cream carpet.
Allow me to open the draping crimson curtains.
It is such a tall stained glass window. A raven sits in its centre, with purples and blues shades of glass surrounding it. Floor to ceiling, only two feet wide. It lets enough light in to illuminate the large mahogany partners desk I sit at. The chair is an oxblood Chesterfield Captain’s swivel chair, also in mahogany. It sits with its back to the window.

Can you hear the grandmother clock? She has a beautiful echoing tick and her chimes are gentle clongs.

The purpose of this room is a space for me to understand myself and the world.
Books hold answers to everything I need to know.
Writing allows me to process events and step outside of them to see the full picture.

The library is the heart of my house. The central hub for how I want to live.

The lighting is low and warm to keep a relaxed atmosphere.

I see one of my volumes caught your attention.
The lilac leather bound book in your hands is a transcript of one of my darkest times in life.
The words live in that book — a memory forever bound.

But the memory continues with life in a room down the hall.

“It wasn’t meant to be” is what some would say.

Let us leave this comfort now and take a short walk to the room at the end of the hall on the right.

Our heels once again make music on the marble flooring in the hall.
We approach the door, and I see the anticipation in your eyes as you read the nameplate that adorns it — “Shea’s playroom.”

Be gentle when entering this room.
Some things are too precious for Earth.

— Frost ❄️