once as to send me an Apple Store gift card with explicit instructions as to what to buy. I even made the trek to the store at the mall, allowed a salesman to ring all the bells and blow all the whistles for me, but I left empty-handed, leaving him red-faced at the display. I am happy to use the computers at the library. And when I’m done, the computer stays right there. I’ve seen how lost people get on the Internet, tapping away frantically. Teenagers lined up in a row not speaking to each other, but rather clicking away on their Facebook pages, sending e-mails, instant messaging, ignoring one another in favor of their virtual friends. Watching them makes me feel strangely lonely.
Linda waves at me through the glass and unlocks the door, ushering me in and telling those waiting outside, “Five more minutes.”
“Pretty sweater,” she says to me.
“Thanks,” I say.
Linda’s husband died last year after a boating accident in Mission Bay, but her cheer is unwavering. I know it is in part because of her son. Robert had just graduated high school when the accident happened. He’s delaying college for a year now, staying at home to help out. He is inside already, flicking on all of the fluorescent lights.
“Good morning,” I say, and he nods silently at me.
He is at the library all day long every day. I know Linda is trying to keep him close. But despite proximity, they rarely speak to each other. I watch them, and it makes my heart ache. I try to imagine them at home, moving around that empty house filled only with their grief, and it pains me. I felt the same way after Lou died, like a single marble rolling around inside an elaborate maze, looking for a way out.
I push the cart full of library books waiting to be returned to the shelves into the children’s room. And I take my time; after nearly a decade of volunteering here, I am familiar with every single book. I have repaired hundreds of them myself. I know each of them simply by the feel of their cracked spines in my hands. After I have finished putting the books away, I settle down at the librarian’s desk and wait for the computer to boot up. After last year’s budget cuts, the children’s librarian position was reduced to half time. I am here more than she is now, and so I have taken over some of her duties. I conduct the Wednesday morning story time, reading to a crowd of mothers and their squirming toddlers. I assist the teachers from the elementary school across the street who bring their students over once a week to pick out books. Today she has left a note asking if I can make a wish list by looking at recent award winners and starred reviews in the Library Journal . This is one of my favorite jobs, though we rarely have enough funds to purchase even a fraction of the books on my list.
I spend an hour or so compiling a thoughtful list of new picture books, middle-grade chapter books, and young adult novels. Robert comes in as I’m finishing up and slumps down into one of the beanbag chairs near the puppet theatre. He sighs and puts his hands behind his head. Linda told me a few months back that he hasn’t cried yet, not even once, about his father. I suspect they’re both trying to be brave for each other, but to what end? I can see his sorrow. I can feel it; it’s palpable.
“Would you like to read to the kids today?” I ask, and he shrugs.
I have discovered that this is something he is really good at, and the children love him. While he rarely speaks to anyone else, he comes alive when he reads for the kids. He changes his voices for all of the characters, making the children laugh. For the half hour of story time he loses his sullenness. His sadness. It’s all I have to offer him. And so after the mothers and their children have come in and settled down on the colorful carpet, after Robert has selected a stack full of books to read, I settle back in at the computer.
I am not even sure what I am planning to do, but it can’t hurt
Linda waves at me through the glass and unlocks the door, ushering me in and telling those waiting outside, “Five more minutes.”
“Pretty sweater,” she says to me.
“Thanks,” I say.
Linda’s husband died last year after a boating accident in Mission Bay, but her cheer is unwavering. I know it is in part because of her son. Robert had just graduated high school when the accident happened. He’s delaying college for a year now, staying at home to help out. He is inside already, flicking on all of the fluorescent lights.
“Good morning,” I say, and he nods silently at me.
He is at the library all day long every day. I know Linda is trying to keep him close. But despite proximity, they rarely speak to each other. I watch them, and it makes my heart ache. I try to imagine them at home, moving around that empty house filled only with their grief, and it pains me. I felt the same way after Lou died, like a single marble rolling around inside an elaborate maze, looking for a way out.
I push the cart full of library books waiting to be returned to the shelves into the children’s room. And I take my time; after nearly a decade of volunteering here, I am familiar with every single book. I have repaired hundreds of them myself. I know each of them simply by the feel of their cracked spines in my hands. After I have finished putting the books away, I settle down at the librarian’s desk and wait for the computer to boot up. After last year’s budget cuts, the children’s librarian position was reduced to half time. I am here more than she is now, and so I have taken over some of her duties. I conduct the Wednesday morning story time, reading to a crowd of mothers and their squirming toddlers. I assist the teachers from the elementary school across the street who bring their students over once a week to pick out books. Today she has left a note asking if I can make a wish list by looking at recent award winners and starred reviews in the Library Journal . This is one of my favorite jobs, though we rarely have enough funds to purchase even a fraction of the books on my list.
I spend an hour or so compiling a thoughtful list of new picture books, middle-grade chapter books, and young adult novels. Robert comes in as I’m finishing up and slumps down into one of the beanbag chairs near the puppet theatre. He sighs and puts his hands behind his head. Linda told me a few months back that he hasn’t cried yet, not even once, about his father. I suspect they’re both trying to be brave for each other, but to what end? I can see his sorrow. I can feel it; it’s palpable.
“Would you like to read to the kids today?” I ask, and he shrugs.
I have discovered that this is something he is really good at, and the children love him. While he rarely speaks to anyone else, he comes alive when he reads for the kids. He changes his voices for all of the characters, making the children laugh. For the half hour of story time he loses his sullenness. His sadness. It’s all I have to offer him. And so after the mothers and their children have come in and settled down on the colorful carpet, after Robert has selected a stack full of books to read, I settle back in at the computer.
I am not even sure what I am planning to do, but it can’t hurt
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