So long ago, so many years in the past, she had been vivacious, energetic, and motivating to young hungry minds seeking knowledge and inspiration. Or at least that is what she had thought. What she had hoped. She’d studied the great works of literature, the seedy words of marginal authors and everything in between, to help her in her quest to bring literacy to the lives of anyone and everyone she could.
Now, with tight curls of silver-grey hair and a tentative gait she barely negotiated the narrow paths between stacks and carts and shelves. She reached out to gently touch one book and then another, as if to in some way reconnect with what had always been the most important thing in her life. The carefully written word.
She still wore her large bright wedding ring, still dressed in polyester and knit, still took time each day to clip on the round gold earrings that had been a part of her most of her life. Those memories were still there and meaningful.
But it was books that brought her the greatest joy. Just the touch reassured her. The feel of worn pages, scuffed covers, and the cracking sound of long-closed spines opened once again , if only for the moment of her fleeting gaze, brought warmth and solace. A page turn or two and then she placed each one carefully down again on another stack before moving along to the next.