My mother is a library, a place of solace and peace, interrupted by tactful whispers and flipped pages. Tall, sturdy bookshelves stand on carpeted floors, displaying neat rows of books. Trapped within each book jacket are the jewels of knowledge, tales of exotic lands, soppy love stories or even a dinner recipe for four, waiting to be uncovered by a lucky pair of hands. People come and go, welcomed by the whirring of computers and bided farewell by the smell of ink on paper— a mix of musty and sweet. Carelessly strewn books from the children’s section, magazines perching dangerously by the shelves’ edge and check-in receipts tucked inconspicuously under a book’s cover – all cleaned and organized by the end of the day. And as days, weeks, and months pass, pages start to yellow, book covers wrinkle up and dust gathers. Yet it is a place of childish laughter, dollops of tears, wonderment and deep thoughts, poured into the books by anonymous readers.