She tells me it’s on the bottom shelf, that the section is small. I don’t like her tone, as if my request was too much, unreasonable even. I find the sad little section of poetry, pick my spot on the floor, sit criss-cross applesauce and start my search. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Whatever it is I haven’t found it in Jane Austen, Beethoven, or on this bottom shelf. I watch the librarian from my spot. Her hair is silver, her face construed out of something I recognize in my own on days like this. She’s just a little better at it. She walks by, mustering a softer voice, “the poetry section isn’t as popular anymore. It just collects dust,” she wrinkles her nose at this declaration. I think she sensed I was hoping to find something here. I pretend she’s just having a bad day and that after the library closes she goes home to a love so great it wouldn’t fit on the bottom shelf. But I know better, and so does she. The bottom shelf is disappointing. On my way out, I stop at the counter and tell her goodbye. She tears her eyes away from her screen for a second, an obligatory second, and says goodbye. I want to hug this stranger, tell her something, but I don’t know where to start.
No comments:
Post a Comment