Each time I open an old book, hold it to my nose and let the candied ink fill my lungs I am transported to one specific place in time.

This place can be found in a small laneway in Northern Queensland, this place was, and I hope still is, a second hand bookstore. I remember my mother taking me here as a child on days I was home from school. I recall a large wooden door that remained ajar with sugar cane dust lapping at it’s stoop. A tattered mat crumpled at the foot of the door with only the letters ‘w’ and ‘e’ still visible from years of abuse.

I remember walking into the small store for the first time, the smell of ageing paper lingering in the air as I ran my small fingers along the spines of books I was too young to understand. To me it was a magical symphony of smells waltzing and curling around the tip of my nose; like a retirment village where the occupants permantently dressed in black tie. Yes, the books were old and tattered and the windows may never have been opened; but to me it was sublime.

As I walked alongside the shelves that formed mountains above me I watched my mother through the spaces between the books . The strands of her amber hair danced in the rays of the mid morning sun that managed to peek through the curtains. It was in this bookstore that I realised how truly beautiful she was.

The elderly shop clerk rarely spoke. He sat behind an oak desk turning the pages of the novel he held in one hand while taking a sip of tea from the cracked mug which he held in the other. He seemed to be as old as most of the books which lined the walls. I often wondered if he had owned any of the novels or collections when he was young man and if it made him sad to part with them as if parting with a memory. Over the many times I visited the store with my mother, he didn’t seem to mind my inquisitive glances or even the moments where I would openly stare from the antique lounge, measuring his reaction when our eyes finally met. He was a mystery wrapped in tweed and Bushells black tea.

In the beginning I would amuse myself by crawling under tables stacked with encyclopedias and leather bound dictionaries as my mother searched the crowded shelves pausing on beautiful hardbacks that it seemed time had forgotten. It was not until I was a little older that I began to join her in the search. I would watch her carefully from beneath the mountains of dust and broken spines as she gently placed each find at her feet before continuing the endless search. The corners of her mouth would sometimes curl into a smile when she came across certain books, I’d always wonder how long she had been searching for it.