The Uses of a Library

She removed fourteen books, nailed them together to make a stepladder for the kitchen.

Most of the chairs had been used for fires, but one armchair was left because it had been soaked by rain. She removed the seat cushion of the chair and replaced it with soil that yielded long, thin stalks of grass.

Other books missing more than one-hundred-page passages she used as journals, writing across margins and around illustration plates.

Waterlogged books weighed double and couldn’t close flat, warped in waves, only good for the periodic burnings.

Some books, when she felt like it, she snapped hard shut to create a buckle of noise that cracked throughout the house, erasing bird calls and other previous sounds, and creating echoes whose souls excited the hollow places of the house. Other, private books. With a series of encyclopedias, she built a considerably dark well within a sticky patch of night that effectively defined its air, but never drew water, for water was cursed here and had already caused so much destruction.

Water damaged and exiled, she read of ghosts at night, reading beneath a single hanging bulb that sprayed its undiscerning light in a copper-tinted sprawl that at other stages of her life would have hurt her eyes with its tiny spikes, but now was the only possible light except for the moon that broke into silver fish and created a soft noise in the trees, bouncing off the leaves, enough by which to read.

And so she turned off the light.