Story Time

Once, a long time ago, there was a small library on the corner of what used to be a busy street. In its prime this street was full of people rushing towards their next stop. The cobblestone path was smooth and only wide enough for two smaller sized people. Only the oldest people can remember what it felt like to walk down that worn cobblestone path and end up on the front steps of the library. For as long as they could remember, the librarian would host a story time every Thursday from 1:45 to 2:30.

She read all kinds of books not only because she believed reading was the greatest thing someone could do. But also, because she knew the kids needed it. Their town could feel lonely and very small at times. She wanted to make sure the children knew there was more to life if they wanted to pursue it. She felt that to read was a way to learn, and also to escape. All of your worries seemed small when you read about a princess locked in a tower. To someone walking by, those forty-five minutes might not seem like much, but for the people that lived in that town, they were everything. The people there were, for the most part, on their own. The nearest town was half a day's walk, and at this time, cars were not available for everyone. But they did not mind. Everything they needed; they could provide for themselves.

On what used to be the main road, there were various shops on both sides that were once always full. A man who seemed like he had always been older than dirt ran what used to be a small grocery store. He was quiet and kind, and always willing to cut a deal for those that needed it. On Sundays, he closed the shop and walked over to the park to feed the birds. Next to the grocery store, there was an unusually large house that held a makeshift stage where children would put on little one-act plays for the entire town. The house was old, older than the town itself, and it looked as if it would fall apart at any moment. On the other side of the grocery was a park. There were a few rusted swings, slides, and benches. Back then, this park was full of the sounds of children laughing and the smell of meat cooking on the grill for an outdoor lunch.

Now the park is abandoned, like most of this town. Occasionally, a rat will scurry across a bench, but even the animals have left it alone. This town that always felt bigger than it was, now seemed so small. The rest of the world had grown and drawn everyone away, everyone except for one little old lady. She was quiet and moved slowly as if every movement hurt her. But still, she made the three-mile walk from her house to the little old library every day. She carefully unlocked the tall wooden door and slowly dusted off the front windows. On the warmer days, she would prop the door open, letting the warm breeze drift inside. On Mondays and Tuesdays, she would go through each of the books, checking each spine and every page for tears. On Wednesdays, she would sit in the office, looking through old albums, remembering what life used to be like. She swept the floors each night and dusted the shelves each morning. From the outside, the library looked like nothing, but inside, the little old lady kept the spirit of the town alive.

Every Thursday, she would pull out her squeaky rocking chair and sit down slowly onto a round gray cushion. She would take a book off of the stack next to her and open the cover. And though no one was there to hear, she continued to host a story time from 1:45 until 2:30. She read many books for the empty shelves, each one with the same enthusiasm that she had many years ago. There were hundreds of books she read, and she always ended the time by reading her absolute favorite. Each time she read this book it was with tears in her eyes, as she was afraid that this would be the last time she read those words, "In an old house in Paris that was covered with vines lived twelve little girls in two straight lines..."