A punch of depression. That was what I felt last night in the twilight hours of the day. I was early meeting a friend and so I wandered into a bookstore. I touched books and connected with authors I had forgotten. (Amazon’s recommendations aren’t as tactile as a pile of books.) I read a Nikki Giovanni poem and missed my mother. I saw Cathleen Schine had a new book out and bought it. I have followed her writing career novel by novel. Awash in the smell of paper, I sat in an aisle and read two chapters of a fantasy book. I let my fingers run over the impulse buys on the counter—all the knickknacks my mother would have bought to stuff my stocking. I smiled.
Bookstore therapy. It works.