When I was a little girl, I had a secret reading spot.
We had an attic that you could only reach via a wooden ladder that was hidden behind a ceiling panel. In my eyes, that little rope on the ceiling was the gateway to my reader’s heart.
The roof was slanted, and on the sides, my mom had made curtains to hide all sorts of occasional use stuff, like Christmas decorations, luggage and out-of-season clothes.
One of the things hiding behind those curtains was a stack of mattresses.
I loved to sneak up the ladder with a book, something to drink and a flashlight. Then I'd pull the ladder up again, and lie down on those mattresses to read, sometimes for hours.
I was so gleeful when my mom called me down for dinner and then couldn’t find me.
Sometimes I lay there, quiet as a mouse, listening to my dad and my brothers working with the tools that took up part of the attic as well.
They had a language of their own, very concise, always discussing their crafts, things I had no idea about, like woodworking.
I really miss my secret reading spot at times, but there is one thing from that spot that I’ve carried with me throughout my life: my love for reading.