Tears
streamed down Maya’s face as she vigorously pumped her legs and ran down the
street. Running seemed the only rational
action to calm her chaotic thoughts.
“This—this cannot be happening,” heaved
Maya. Thump,
thump. Her feet rhythmically pounded
against the solid pavement. Each stride
only confirmed the reality of the world around her. Maya quickened her pace, desperately trying
to defy her sense of perception. The
mental walls protecting her from harm, from the truth, began to deteriorate. She needed to escape.
The second hand bookstore stood at
the intersection of Main and Worthington.
A dilapidated building that had seen more corrosion than customers, the
bookstore exuded an aura of mystery. Its
apartness from the surrounding stores attracted the tired Maya. She hurriedly wiped her face and entered the
disheveled building.
Shelves of misshapen books lined the
small space from wall to wall. A musty
smell permeated the air. From her
peripheral vision, Maya could see myriad colors and sizes of books. Not one seemed similar to another.
An old man with large round rimmed
glasses sat at an oak counter, reading a crumpled book with copious ink
stains. “You have quite the collection
of books, sir,” said Maya, trying to steady her voice. “Do you get many customers?” She could not remember a single customer
leaving with a purchase.
“Bah,” exclaimed the old man. “I
only keep this place running for my wife; she’s a schoolteacher. She could never let this place go. It’s too special to her.”
“My mother is a schoolteacher
too! She always presses me t—” Maya cut
herself off. She had temporarily
forgotten. “She was a schoolteacher.” Maya finished softly.
The old man took off his glasses,
exposing wrinkled, yet compassionate eyes.
“You know, stories are not confined to books. Stories told through words, that are passed
on to friends and children, are just as immortalized as text on paper. The carriers of books, those that bring them
to this store, have stories as well.”
He beckoned to a padded chair beside
him. “Come, this is a place where stories are remembered.”
Alex, I really enjoyed this post. My great-grandmother passed away years ago, but when she died, she left me a book in which she wrote her memories, hopes for the future, etc. I know she did not share this book with me to attempt to defy death, but when I read it, I cannot help but feel that she has. As a result, I often wonder whether remembrance creates immortality. Though a person may only exist as a memory, in a sense, they still live on through others, as Maya's mother will when Maya shares her stories.
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