When the morning comes

11 | it's a scam

With my fingers sliding across the books, they stopped whenever a title would awake my interest. It wouldn't always take long before I realised how the summary didn't meet the expectations I'd had after reading the title, letting me down. I knew I had to give the story a chance- every story deserved to be heard, but if a particular sickness or topic would be written down onto the back, they'd lose me.

Squeezing my eyes closed when the late afternoon sun shone through the small windows of the library, my hands had only held books about horses so far. And although I knew he did like horses in a way, I was sure he wouldn't enjoy reading about four girls going on an adventure with their ponies to the beach and finding a lost puppy.

He already wasn't too fond of reading lately, but I thought it was important to feed him literature. Seeing he was a big eater, dessert would never be declined. To fill in the gaps, they'd say. I agreed with that, because truly, reading filled the gaps.

Whether it were the gaps in your mind or your heart, whether it was the gap in your hand that held no book, they would be filled. Reading was a privilege. Writing a story was one thing, sharing it to the world was another. A piece so close to someone's heart, something so vulnerable and personal- it was a shame to let the books lay there until a thick layer of dust would forget and cover up the hard work someone had fulfilled.

Words were a gift from God. Words bring love. Words hurt. Words encourage. Words arouse emotions. Something once meaningless, something that became one of the most important things when it came to relationships with others. Something a baby hears first. Something a kid practically learns first. Something we couldn't live without.

My mind got ahead of it sometimes. How can we think in words, give it meaning? And then the way everyone interprets it differently, which could come out entirely wrong to the point where heavy miscommunications arise, or so right that new things originate.

Words are something everybody uses, mostly without thinking much about it- the words having been given a meaning in your mind ever since you were little. But what if certain spoken words become the thing you regret the most?

You wished they wouldn't hold so much. You wished they didn't mean so much. You wished they had filled the gap rather than created one in someone's heart. A gap that simply couldn't be filled, other than a weak apology, considering the tear it had caused.

And maybe my own words had tore apart the gap in my heart with greater force than to whom I had said it to.

"I didn't know you liked reading the healing horses, healing hearts series. You find a message in that as an English teacher?"

Lost in thoughts, I had barely noticed myself flipping through Heartland, a series about a girl trying to heal traumatized or wounded horses. Letting out a chuckle, I shrugged, placing it back on its shelve. "Kid books are something else."

Salomé hummed, took the book I had just laid back. "Could be a good one for the pupils. Maybe they can identify with the horses that hold traumas."

"Sometimes the books with the least and simplest words hold the deepest meanings."

Salomé nodded, remained silent when she gave me a small smile. With the two of us searching through the books, I couldn't help but feel how she watched me. "Are you looking for something specific?"

"Not necessarily. His heart is filled with cows and horses and cowboys and rodeo and stuff, though."

"I see. So you're not looking for yourself?" She raised her eyebrows, pointing at the sign that said the category was for children. Her eyes stood playful, the tone in her voice betrayed her teasing.