Book Shelves...

fiction

She walked past the shelves trailing a finger along the spines of the books she had spent years curating. All of the different colors and textures of the covers. Some thick enough to rival any work of King's and some barely a pamphlet. There were more than a few collections, anthologies. Shorter stories that might only have one thing in common but seemed to hold together as a whole.

She was old enough to know that you couldn't judge a book by its cover. There were a few on her shelves that had proved that out. She had gone in expecting one story and walked away with something totally different. But there were a few that had given up the whole game just from a glance. It really should have been you couldn't always tell a book from its cover, but sometimes you really should.

There were some that told twisty stories where you never knew what was coming next. And there were more than a few who thought they were telling clever stories but she had figured out where they were headed very early on. Of those, some she enjoyed the ride even if she knew the destination and some were clearly in the realm of finishing because it was what she used to do. Though now she was more likely to place a book like that on the DNF pile and move along. There were so many stories to get to and only so much time.

She had a variety of genres. Some magical realism to keep things light. Some mysteries because what was life without a little mystery? More than her share of romance, some trashy, some grand. Some epic histories, some tawdry dimestore stories. And surprisingly a few really good westerns.

She paused by the end of one shelf. A shiny leather cover. Sleek and black and expensive looking. She knew if she pulled this one down it would have sprayed edges and it even smelled expensive. It also contained no words. Just pictures. Glimpses. She didn't have time today to look through those pages, but some other day she'd spend a few hours luxuriating in the possibilities those photos held. The stories that she didn't really know but could imagine differently each time she saw those photos.

Today she was looking for a children's book. One she had kept for years even though the story was old and out of date. Not one that anyone wanted to hear anymore. Even though some things in childhood never change, the ways they are presented do. Kids today want their stories to be a little more stylized. Still the basics, here's how we kill the dragons, but now the dragon needed to be able to be transformed into a movie, or an animated series. It couldn't be unseen and just talked about. You had to show the dragon now. Pics or it didn't happen as her kids had said. Their kids said something similar she was sure but not to her.

She spent more and more time looking at the children's stories now. She liked the way they were arranged, not alphabetically, or even by year, but sort of haphazard. A lot of them crowded together as if they were sharing the playground secrets hidden in their pages. The children's books also had brighter covers. Even after all of this time they hadn't faded. They were still the bright bold colors. Blue as brilliant as the sky. Red deep as a summer rose. The yellow of a sunflower. Bright, cheery, colors. She wanted to find the one that was the color of green grass on a baseball field. The story of the day that Jamie hit the homerun even though he hadn't hit a single pitch cleanly all season. The hero of the game story. She loved that one. Could almost taste the victory ice cream from the last page.

She knew that book was here someplace, she had just seen it. But today she couldn't find it. Kept finding the pink covered book about the princess party, or the purple covered book with the story of the terrible third grade bully who turned out to have only been misunderstood in the end. All good stories, but not the one she wanted, so she kept looking. Oh wait, here it was!

"James? Honey, we need to get going."

"I know. I was just hoping that..."

"I know. Maybe next time?"

"Maybe."

"What do you think she's thinking about right now?"

James looked at his mother sitting in her chair by the window gazing out at the world, a small smile on her face.

"I wish I knew."

PROCESS:

Okay, this one was triggered by a place called The Human Library. It's an actual organization where you can "check out" a person and hear their story. It's a way of getting to know different people with different perspectives. A way of asking questions of someone that you might not be comfortable asking in another setting. For instance I could offer myself up as a "book" for anyone who wanted to know what it was like to be the parent of an adult trans child. It's a unique story, not one that a lot of people have access to, and also one that is in the news a lot right now. Trans people, not their parents, but you see where I'm going. Your unique stories offered up for other people to learn from.

But when I first heard about the idea I thought of an older woman who to the outside world is lost in her own head, but inside she's perusing the stories of her life. Every person or experience a book, or if not a whole book part of an anthology. Or maybe just a passing photograph of someone she saw in a bar once and thought, oh what's their story? She would never know but just seeing them made it into her Human Library.