And while I've walked through my own hell, made my own mistakes, and found my own redemption, always there have been books. Nothing has affected me as much as reading has. Walls of worlds bound and waiting for me to read. The bookstore! Smells of paper and leather and ink. I remember the heavy door, the warmth, the wood. I remember running downtown-Salvation Army bells, white lights strung in sidewalk trees, bundled shoppers bent against the wind. The smell of Avon powder, her thin smile, an envelope pressed into my palm-ten dollars and a peppermint candy cane thank you. I remember snowmen, and igloos, and icy trails through the white and wondrous woods. Freckles throwing fastballs that hurt for the cold of them on my neck. I remember rubber bands and ink stained hands. I see the trees bowed with armloads of white, as if to curtsey my passing. I feel the canvas paper bag cutting into my shoulders, the weight of Sunday's headlines heavy on my mind. "Here, don't forget your mittens." I remember the soft thump of that first footstep in the cold and virgin powder, the tracks looking back, foghorns blowing on the mist-covered bay. I remember racing to dress, struggling with my boots. Great buckets of it poured from the gray skies and blanketing everything in quiet white.
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