Though young, I memorized the many names
Of all the books up on my mother’s shelf;
Eventually, I read them, every one.
Like voyages I’d longed to take, myself,
I found them strange and wonderful, indeed;
These old books that I new as only names.
They all took part, my growing soul to feed,
Connected me to worlds that long had passed,
And gave me reading’s love, a love steadfast.
Today, upon this table, I can see
What’s left of someone gone, who much like me
Loved all these books for how they made her feel;
Who found that fiction made her life