Dear friends who love literature.
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I am responding to the invitation of 
The Ink Well Fiction Prompt #7: The Library
Thank you in advance for your kind readings.
The past of my playground.
The gleaming hallway and the wide stairs are two of the things I love most about my school. When I reach the corridor, a gentle and silent energy carries me up the wide stairs.
Beside me the other children climb the steps, sometimes jumping them two at a time. I just move upwards, moved by the invisible force that waits for me every day to take me to my classroom.
When I am at the door I stop. At will I stop the force that makes me move. I say good morning to my teacher and ask permission to enter. I walk to my fixed place.
I sit in front of my teacher's desk, behind her, in front of me, the classroom library rises to the ceiling. From my low height I can read all the titles. They suggest images and knowledge about geography, history, mythology, literature, architecture, flora, fauna...
Sometimes one of these titles enters my mind as a fixed, repetitive thought. When that happens I am a little reluctant to leave the classroom and ask the teacher what the title means.
My teacher's explanation accompanies me home competing with other fragmented memories of the day. After lunch, while the parents rest in the midday heat, impelled by the memory of school, I search through the books scattered in every room for a title that attracts me to take it to the courtyard and review it under the shade of the mango tree.
It was there that I first entered the past time of the courtyard of my house.
I was looking through one of mum's gardening books. It was a heavy book on tropical flora. The profusion of pictures of various plants amazed me. Huge leaves, vines, large ferns, animal-shaped flowers, orchids, birds of paradise, colourful trees....
A winged ant fell from a tree branch onto an image of a beautiful flower and pulled me out of the spell of the plants. As I placed it on the ground I saw the path of ants surrounding me. I felt no fear. I followed their movements up the tree. It was then that I saw the crack in the bark, it was arched in shape.
As I placed my finger in the crevice a faint breeze caressed my hand and I began to hear birdsong. At that moment the portal to the past of the courtyard opened. I stood in front of it with my back bent. In front of me a profusion of malanga leaves blocked my path. I gently pushed aside each leaf, each branch, until I saw an open path and could walk freely.
That first time I walked alone, crossed streams, watched small animals in the tall grasses, near water sources and on trees... On one side of the path I could hear a river.
At a certain point I began to float like at school... I reached the top of a huge tree and could look down on my courtyard from above. What a profusion of greenery, so many palm trees, so many ripe fruits, so many flowers filling the scenery with colour.
My house was not there, nor was the mango tree.
I didn't think about my mother, my father, my brothers and sisters; I just breathed in the familiar smell of that space. Even today I can still clearly remember the smell of that piece of land. It is the best scent of my life.
I remember sitting on a branch, there I remained as if in limbo, just looking, just breathing, with an indescribable feeling of happiness.
I could see the river below and the clouds above; I could also see the families of animals meekly drinking and eating. When I had taken hold of that branch of the tree as my home, I felt my mother's voice calling me. There was no doubt about it, it was my mother. No one else pronounces my name like her.
A sharp whistle went through the length of my body, I was splitting. My mum's voice reminded me of my teacher's face... only then did I start to climb down, but before I left my tree I removed the ribbon that tied my hair and tied it to a branch.
I floated back down the path. Arriving at the portal I recognised the arched shape of the cleft in the mango bush. Through I went, I was back. At the foot of the tree the book on tropical flora was waiting. Mum was leaning out of the patio door and calling to me.
I walked towards her...
A few steps away she told me to put the book back where I had found it. Then she paused, puzzled, and asked me where I had left my ribbon.
I didn't know how to answer that question, but I knew I would return many times to my backyard past. I already knew the way, and so I did.
