"Without libraries what have we? We have no past and no future." — Ray Bradbury

Growing up alongside my mother meant enduring a unique form of educational disruption. Despite her constant relocation, she always nurtured a connection to her roots through the flowers she loved from her youth. When we moved from England to California when I was eleven, I excelled in math, only to find myself lost in the American education system, waiting for it to align with my previous knowledge.

Returning to England a few years later, I faced significant academic challenges. After being bullied at school in Chertsey, my mother allowed me to stay home and read, and thus my own educational journey unfolded. Although I struggled with formal schooling, my mother’s passion for books ensured I was never truly deprived of learning.

One early obstacle I faced was my late start in reading, which stemmed from an extended trip across Europe with my mother and my stepfather, Tom. While in Nice, I attended a local school, learning to speak French swiftly, but not reading English. Upon reuniting with my family, I had to relearn English, leading to some challenging communication gaps between my mother and me. She eventually taught herself French to read Tom's love letters from France, and soon after, she immersed herself in the works of French authors like Colette and Baudelaire.

Once we settled back in New York, I was enrolled in P.S. 75, the Emily Dickinson School, right across from Tom's apartment. At that point, I couldn't read at all; I didn’t even know my ABCs. Determined to change that, my mother adopted a hands-on approach to teaching me. On our couch, we worked through the Dick and Jane series: "See Jane run. See Spot run."

Our reading sessions were not always smooth. My mother’s patience occasionally ran thin when I stumbled over sentences I had just mastered. On one particularly frustrating day, I distracted myself by cutting holes in my shirt, which prompted her to leap from the couch in anger. The thought of disappointing her was unbearable, yet despite the ups and downs, I eventually grasped reading. Before long, I was devouring The Lord of the Rings during my walks to school through the picturesque streets of Hampstead.

As a child, my mother curated my library, carefully selecting books she cherished or deemed well-written. I was gifted the complete Wizard of Oz series, Black Beauty, Misty of Chincoteague, and Eloise. She also introduced me to Roald Dahl’s works, though later, she developed a strong aversion to him due to his views.

Her bedroom in Hampstead was a sanctuary, its walls painted midnight blue, adorned with glow-in-the-dark stars and hanging planets, creating a cosmic atmosphere. She would invite me to read poetry aloud, immersing me in the rhythmic beauty of the words. During this period, she was also exploring her own writing, crafting poetry and beginning novels that reflected her artistic flair.

Mom was known for her distinctive handwriting and often typed on an old typewriter, producing unique pages that bore her personality. She shared stories with me, including Stinkfoot, about a streetwise cat. Illustrations from her talented friend Katrina added charm to her notebooks. This story would later evolve into a collaborative project with her husband Vivian Stanshall.

Throughout her life, my mother amassed extensive personal libraries, only to leave them behind whenever she moved on. She would pack books in boxes, often losing precious volumes during transitions. Eventually, she committed to keeping her library intact, even at great personal cost. Shipping her books became a common practice, leading to mixed results and occasional heartbreak when boxes went missing.

After publishing her first novel, China Blues, my mother transported her library across states, and it found temporary refuge in a one-room schoolhouse in Vermont. Later, she occupied an apartment in the iconic Brooks House, filling it with her beloved books.

Yet, life uprooted her once more, forcing her to store her library in various units over the years. Following her passing, my sister and I uncovered the remnants of her literary life, now reduced to a fraction of its former glory. Today, I hold a small portion of her library, alongside her manuscripts and papers.

In the year of her death, I grappled with the idea of parting with her books. My living space is limited, and the thought of additional cartons felt overwhelming. However, as I opened each box, I found treasures from her life — novels and her newfound passion for horse racing, which she had rekindled in her later years.

As I sifted through her volumes of esoteric histories and research for her novels, I realized that these books were more than mere objects; they were the embodiment of her thoughts and dreams. A personal library is a reflection of one's essence, and my mother’s collection was no exception.

How could I bear to donate her library? My own collection is tucked away in boxes, primarily filled with art and history books. The burden of ownership weighs heavily, but I find solace in the idea of transforming my storage unit into a cozy library. Perhaps, I could line the shelves and create a space where I can revisit my mother’s world, immersing myself in her literary legacy.