The lady at the bookstore, I saw her today, wrapped in a heavy shawl outside the bus stop.
Her hair was pinned up with a little black clip, a dark statement against her wispy white hair.
Four words popped out as soon as I saw her. Straw-like, stuck out, and slightly unkempt, but she seemed to flow of a magic that only book seller’s have.
One day, I hope to be a part of that same magic too.
And though I wanted to speak to her, I felt mute underneath the vast night sky. Some small feeling inside of me was holding me back from the book seller’s magic.
In my bolder days, when I’d spoken to her, she told me that she lived far away from the bookstore. Her children thought it was silly of her to travel all the way to the city just to work there.
But people who aren’t part of the magic don’t know. When you find a place of belonging, you’d do anything to keep it alive.
And though I am scared, pretty much every day now, I know I’d rather be scared than to stop being a dreamer.
I can’t help but continue on this path. It’s the only one that seems to ring true, the sweetest melody that makes all else bitter.
Now I can see that whatever happens, I will strive for that magic that booksellers have.