I remember fondly the yesteryears,
My head buried in a Francis Selormey piece or an Enid Blyton prose,
I talk about this all the time,
The distinct smell of the pages as they turned,
The unmistakable crinkling sound of the polythene they came wrapped in,
Talk about a good read, a Nancy Drew or a Hardy Boys,
I would stand over the ironing board, tuned out,
I could hear Mama calling me to come eat,
But it was so far away, not the food, but her voice,
And to fold the page and abandon the book meant I had to leave my imaginary friends and community behind,
Somehow I felt I disappointed them, and that they did not deserve me,
Or that the author had to pause narrating the story around a mystical bonfire because I had to take a break,
If Francis, Enid, Carolyn and J.K could hear me, they would probably comfort me,
But I did not realize that until I was all grown up.
Nessa 🖤🖤🖤
AFRO387 