I've been here many times before. Spending hours upon hours, I sit in the same old brown chair with my back facing the same old thick glass window, which lets the rays of warm sunshine fall upon my chilled skin. Engulfing me, the heat is a fireplace in my heart, giving me a sense of belonging like never before. This corner has become my home, my cave where I lose myself from reality. I am accustomed to each and every nook and cranny like the back of my hand. Reality, now but a figment of my imagination, is nothing but arbitrary. Before me lay the towering rows of shelves which display the reason for my burst of delight.

Books.
These shelves welcome themselves to my yearning arms, to cradle their well kept works of profound literature. Forever in my clothing lingers the aroma of paper fresh off the press and bittersweet coffee. The scent has become my signature perfume. Subconsciously I can hear the dancing strings of acoustic guitars unfold their melodies into the air like the wings of hummingbird as I read. Watching in awe, I absorb the never¬ ending aisles of narrow bookshelves in rows and along each wall. Bright colors pop out from the shelves, paint splattered on a blank canvas, speaking to my desire. Desperate for attention, the books nag me to save them from their shackles and to read them, revealing their detailed illustrations and words of substantiality. Life begins to appear trivial in relation to the sacred stories they hold. There is not a speck unornamented in this alternate reality, not even an empty wall to stare back at me. Covered with posters and paintings and photographs and advertisements, the walls speak of a whole new adventurous tale.                                                                                                           

                                        
The room is sprinkled with people about, sitting in obscure chairs, in cozy corners, losing themselves in the mounds of stories. In hands are sometimes held steaming coffees, topped with clouds of whipped cream and drizzled with a hint of chocolate syrup. Sometimes hands hold the icy mocha blends to cool and accompany them through their journey. But this beverage, aside a novel, along with a warm cushioned chair, obscured in the corner, amidst the music, lost in the depth of shelves, is nothing-- nothing without another human being.
The person beside me sits with her nose buried in her book, lost in what seems to be Middle Earth. She lives in a time of hobbits and dwarves, of elves and wizards, of dragons and ogres. With her enchanting image, she herself resembles the features of a hobbit; with her plump face, stout legs, and ringlets upon her head. Eyes as big as the moon, they move from word to word, looking more intrigued than the last. As she sits legs crossed, one hand twirls away at her head and a brown-golden curl sticks to the chair, wandering away from its nest. They curve one way and another like noodles in a pot; as if they have a mind of their own. In a sudden, she begins to grin her Cheshire grin and as she does, she can’t help but giggle. Soon enough, she can’t hold herself back any longer and out pours her fit of laughter, filling the silence with jingles. This person takes an admiring glance at me and sets her long, slim, piano-esque hands over mine. The warmth from her comforting spreads through me like a wildfire and I long for us to stay in this moment forever. But she isn’t just any person of course-- she is my mother.

I admire every inch of her. I admire the way she finds humor in everything and has no self control to hold back her laughter and the way her jeweled eyes are always filled with the curiosity of a child’s.  I admire the freckles scattered on her nose and the red rosy cheeks on her round face. Not to mention, the way her clumsiness always gets the best of her. I also admire her plump little self, although small, can spread love to the world along with her heart of gold. Best of all, she doesn’t even have to try. She is a mother to everyone, and holds her arms wide open to anyone in need. Just as Atlas carries the sky on her shoulders, my mother fends off any burden that leaves me astray. But, even she has her limits. The sky is too much for one person to hold. Losing herself in an abyss of mournfulness and sorrow, she cannot be seen. It is both a blessing and burden to feel emotions with such fierceness as she. Knocking my mother down takes an unfortunate amount of life out of her. But eventually, step by step, she rises and becomes the queen of the jungle once more. Facing many a battle, this woman trumps all others. She is a woman in mind, but a child at heart.

As we sit here in this bookstore, our home, we do not speak. My mother and I simply sit side by side and lose ourselves in two completely different worlds. Words aren’t needed in a moment such as the present one; all we need is the simplicity of company. All I need is to feel her embracing presence. I am an identical copy of my mother, and for her to feel emotions with such intensity means that I am overwhelmed with content. The content can be smelt in the air; it fills this bookstore with a syrup-sweet decadence. We are a bundle of happiness and we are the purest sort of happiness. No one, nowhere, in a million years, could understand how it feels to sit alongside my mother with a book and a coffee.

This is all I ever need from the world; nothing more, nothing less.