Bookstore Therapy

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.

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