Hope in a Bookstore

Yesterday, I was having a rough day. 

Lots of family stuff going on; lots of worries on my mind.  I went to a doctor’s appointment and started heading home, feeling really down in the dumps. 

I decided, for just a moment, to think only of myself.

What would make me feel better?

Was it even worth it to try and feel better?

Where can I go to forget about all of the stuff swirling around in my head?

A bookstore.

I turned the car around and drove to a bookstore.

Parking the car I felt the anticipation…

I walked in the door and immediately smelled that wonderful smell of paper and dreams.

Oh what a balm for the soul that is the feeling of wandering through a bookstore alone with no time restrictions or agenda. 

Alone is everything.   To have the ability to wander and pause, no child pulling at my hand, no texts asking, “Where are you?”

To have the time to peruse and skim and think.

I wandered every single isle.  I chose a book about the country of Wales.  I want to go back there so badly, not sure if I ever will. But this book is a piece of a dream that I can hold on to.

When life is hard, holding a piece of a dream is nothing short of a life raft.

Fiction.

A hefty hard cover with textured pages.

I chose one that I was drawn to, one about a writer.  A character that I can relate to, 263 pages of a life that isn’t mine, but one that will help wash away the jagged edges of my day when I open it in bed tonight.

I sat at a table near the coffee bar with a stack of magazines containing beautiful pictures of French cottages and my books.  I stopped to close my eyes and breathe. 

No two people, when given the gift of time and freedom of choice, would select the exact same stack of treasures.

I am me.

This is my happy place.

A tall, thin man walks up to the coffee counter and says quietly, “Please tell me how much a black coffee is… with tax.”

The young girl answers, “$3.66”

“Is that with tax? Or without?” he asks.

“With.”

The man turns around and stops at a table; he takes off his gloves and begins to pull change out of his pocket.  Slowly and carefully, he counts his change, muttering to himself.

I should go give him some money, I think.

I want to give him some money.

But I am a woman alone in modern America and sadly, I have to assess the safety of the situation before I act.

Another man who is sitting with his two young daughters turns to see the tall man counting his change.

He stands up and approaches and says, “Hey buddy, let me get that for you.  What would you like to order?”

“Just a black coffee.”

“A large black coffee for the gentleman,” he says to the counter girl.

“I… I… I’m afraid I can’t pay you back,” says the tall man.

“I don’t want you to. It’s okay.”

“I just feel bad, I don’t… I don’t… I can’t,” says the tall man.

“If you could, you would.  It is okay my friend.”

The gesture was a beautiful thing to witness. 

The man and his little girls made their way to the front of the store to pay for their books as the tall man waited for his coffee. 

I followed them.

I wanted to hug him.

I wanted to tell him that I was having a really hard day and that what he did made me feel hopeful again.

Normally, I would have made a big deal out of it.

This time, I couldn’t say a word.  I needed to carry the feeling a little longer.  I needed to be a witness not a participant.  To comment would have shone a light on this beautiful and precious energy, a gesture as delicate as a whisp of smoke.

I didn’t say a word.  I smiled gently at him and his little girls.  He smiled back.  He knew.  I knew.  That was enough.