Aside from my mothers record player, her bookshelf was the one thing of hers that I truly wish I had taken with me when I had to up and move at the young age of 17. I had gathered up as many things as I could of hers, packing it away in storage or keeping it close to me for memories. I had to condense what I chose to take along with me as I didn’t know how much space I would have in the next place I would call “home”. At the time it seemed like an easy decision to pack all the small stuff up in boxes for safe keeping, leaving behind the big things that took up a lot of space. I don’t remember if I gave those items away or if I simply left them in the living room of that big, empty apartment that I once called home. To this day I truly wish that I had her record player and her bookshelf with me. These were two things that stand out in my childhood memories that I considered “happy pieces”. I loved waking up to the music from her record player and hearing her singing along with her beautiful, comforting voice. It would somehow lure my tired, unmotivated teenage body out of bed with the desire to go downstairs and join her in the wonderful sounds. The rock and roll my mom would blare somehow made chores and our cleaning days more fun and much less bland. I also learned the true meaning of actual bad a** music on that thing. Her book shelf. Her book shelf was another item that held a lot of memories for me. I recall it being long enough to take up half of the wall in our living room. Two rows of shelving and some pretty wood work on the top shelf. It was somehow the piece that would become a part of our Easter pictures and where she would hang our stockings for Christmas. She had every book of the dictionary from a-z that would take up more than half of the shelving. Her karate books took up a small space but was a good reminder that, although she was the sweetest, she could kick some serious butt if need be. We decorated the top of the book shelf with random objects that we found to be interesting and it became the home of little animals that my sister and I had as our pets. I watched my fish, “Goldilocks” that my grandmother had gifted me, swimming along in her tank on top of this bookshelf for more than 7 years. I adored this goldfish as it was a reminder of my grandma and the day we carried Goldilocks home in her little plastic bag as I was beaming with happiness, my new fish in one hand and my grandmothers hand in the other. This bookshelf was a reminder that you could get lost in the magic of a book, that Santa would always find a way to our home to stuff our stockings full of Christmas cheer and that the smallest pet placed upon a shelf in its little tank could bring the biggest smile. I’ve since tried searching for a similar book case but have come up short. I’ve searched high and low and I’ve found some gorgeous ones. Some more modern, some more fancy, some that almost.. almost resemble it but they simply won’t do. As I sat here this morning starting yet another browsing moment with my coffee in hand and the search tab open, I started to wonder if these kinds of bookshelves simply don’t exist anymore. Surely, there are plenty of antiques out there that resemble the character and look of my mothers bookshelf. But as I continue to look I now wonder.. if someone were to place one in front of me that were almost exact to the one in my memory, would it be enough? Is it truly a bookshelf that I am searching for? Or is it a memory, a feeling that I’m trying to find? The feeling of my mother, her scent, her sound, the warmth of her things surrounding me as I soak it all in. Maybe it’s not a bookshelf but rather the feeling of childhood nostalgia or carefree magic that no longer exists in me that I’ve been tirelessly searching for.

Thanks for joining me!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton