In that place he was

like a god, meaning higher

than everything. Almost always

on a ladder he stood

quickly leafing through

books in search of something.

I used the rustling to locate 

him, my tray weighed down

with milk in a silver ewer,

a bowl for washing the eager

ink from the pads

of his fingers. I looked up

at him the way one might

a god, meaning reverently,

and with no small hope

of punishment, no matter how

unspoken. He looked up

from his reading, down

at me, and gave a nod

which meant permission

to return to our large desk 

at the center of the library

and overfill myself

with the milk, which was 

warm, which was kindness.