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Today unlike my yesterdays

I stood there scanning my book shelf. Old, disjointed memories come flooding back, like tiny lapping waves against my ankles. I could see my old copies of A West Indian Narrative, Summer's Lightening, Miguel Street and Annie John.

I think about the times when these books filled not only my shelves but my life. When the stories consumed me, shaped me, made me. I feel a pain ripping through my chest, as I hurt inside from the neglect of having not touched them for many years. I could feel the tears, as I pick them up one by one and remember deeply, sensually, the reasons why I feel.

Today I sometimes wonder who I am. Life did unexpected things to me, sometimes gently pushing me along, sometimes harshly shoving me ahead. Today I see someone I have come to love and respect, not a shadow of the girl who fell in love with books, but a woman, solid and strong in her beliefs shaped and accentuated by writers of past generations.

Then there is a new me. The one that walked beside my spirit, step for step, beat for beat and eventually side stepped into it. The one that found the peace to forget the past and look forward, up, down and sideways.

I place the books back on the shelf, comforted in knowing they will be there when I need them and walk out the door. Down the path to the sandy beach, where the sun shines warmly and the wind blows coolly. I spread my yoga mat, take a deep breathe and begin a life less influenced, a life that is me.

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