The Signal Mountain Library

I took a drive by the old house today. The yard has fewer flowers and there’s a soccer goal now off to one side. A wooden initial hanging on the front door whispers of a growing family, the parents probably sleeping in the bedroom I’d sneak to so often after a bad dream.

I spent summers here with granny, trailing the scent of sun-warmed earth, looking for worms and butterflies. We spent some days at the pool in town, but mostly, I would read in the big room filled with windows at the back of the house. And now that I’m sitting in front of it, with the passenger-side window rolled down, overlooking its new life, I’m happy it gets to experience more firsts.

I have 10 minutes to get to Story Time, so I say goodbye, an audiobook blasting out of the speakers, as I wind the Volvo down the two-lane road from our old house to the library. Every year, it was our first stop, picking up the summer reading lists and bringing home as many books as we could check out and fit in our tote that day.

Now, I walk the same worn path from the car to the entrance. The library seems smaller than I remember, with daffodils lining the walkway. The boys’ voices carry through the morning air.

As I enter, with each hand holding a smaller, stickier version of mine, I’m met with a familiar light that pours in through the teal-trimmed window in the children’s section.

At 11, we settle in for storytime. Diego perfectly tucked in my cross-legged lap, Ari listening on his belly, his chin cupped in his hands, and for a moment, I see myself in them—a girl on her mountain, heart full of wonder, ready for her next story.

It is a quiet, unspoken magic.

It is coming home.