Crossing borders

I stand outside the borders of Borders Bookstore. I can’t go inside. Avalon Flooring took over the space years ago, and I haven’t been inside since. I stand on the sidewalk, hearing the bustle of the highway behind me, and in my head I visit Borders. My mind wanders around inside, leading me through the childrens’ section, and it is a magical space: always somehow more alive than the one at Barnes and Noble. My memories come together to make a disconnected puzzle: the idea of books but not their names, the color of the store but not its shape. I remember a rocket ship that towered over me, a cardboard display of books that could take me into outer space. I remember holding my grandmother’s hand, back when I was smaller than she was, and listening to her tell me that she’ll buy me any book I want. It’s a memory within a memory: the bookstore and all it held, deep inside my mind. Inside it I am six years old, clinging to my grandmother’s hand, debating as I riffle through the picture books, all of them dripping with color and meaning and the work of a thousand imaginations. 

My memories are boarders in Borders Books. I board a rocket ship and cross borderlines. I cross border after border after Borders.

There is a Borders in my mind now, where my grandmother is laughing and I am wandering, knowing I’ll never be lost. I fly away in rocket ships, and I land on other planets. My memory only takes me as far as the childrens’ section, but my imagination takes me the rest of the way in. There is no end to the Borders in my mind. There are no walls, because this store goes on forever. There is no Guitar Center bordering the back of the store, because the music playing here comes from my mind. There is no Avalon Flooring beneath my feet, because rocket ships never take you to places with floors. There are no cars and no parking lot, no time and no space, just me and my grandmother buying books.