"Why did grandma want me to come to the library of Mortsel?" I wondered. Obeying her simple demand, she whispered, prompted nervously.
"Yes," the beehive entrance of the rebuild outrages small town edifice was a marvel. Granddad, clearly inspired by a sanitarian neatness, I thought mockingly.
Yet, overwhelmed by it's simple modern urban softness illuminated interior, openness created by the large ceiling ongoing window sections, expressing vision and wisdom for those who read. "A basic enough concept," sneeringly gaping around me.
"Oh, there you are," Theresa whispered, "grandma told you'd be here speedily; curiosity hasn't killed the cat, yet!" She chuckled, slowly uprising from the latest library acquisition, putting the book aside, gazing to the back-lounge wall, not even rendering me a glance.
"Still hobbling, are we?"I thought silently. Even at the age of four I identified her, the most wrinkled fossilized erudite ever. She still is, apparently. I looked over my right shoulder, following her lead.
An immense back-wall panel glided open, exposing the biggest library vault, EVER, I thought, leaving me baffled, in pure awe.
"The pussy goes first," she says.