THE LIBRARY ASSISTANT WHO DIDN’T LIKE NOISE

THE LIBRARY ASSISTANT WHO DIDN’T LIKE NOISE

Sally worked in the library,
She’d been there all her life,
From when she was a teenager,
To a mother and a wife.

She loved the rows of quiet books,
The whispers passing through,
The gentle turning of a page,
Was all the noise she knew.

She hated chairs that scraped the floor,
And laughter ringing loud,
She’d raise one finger to her lips,
And silence every crowd.

“Please keep your voices very low,”
Was something Sally would say,
Then straighten books upon the shelves,
And quietly walk away.

The years went slowly round her,
Yet Sally stayed the same,
And everyone who used the place,
Eventually knew her name.

One evening Sally finished work,
And gently closed the door,
She never knew that when she left,
She’d not return once more.

She settled in her favourite chair,
And rested for the night,
She closed her eyes and slipped away,
Before the morning light.

But something called her back again,
To where she’d loved to be,
Among the books and quiet rooms,
That held her memory.

And now when all the doors are locked,
And everyone has gone,
A little click breaks through the hush,
The library lights come on.

Then off, then on, then off again,
Yet no one needs to fear,
For Sally never screams aloud,
Or suddenly appears.

She doesn’t frighten anyone,
Or wander through the night,
She simply sits there in her chair,
Where everything feels right.

Perhaps she wishes she were still,
Alive and sitting there,
Watching over all her books,
From her old familiar chair.

And if some laughter breaks the hush,
When midnight shadows fall,
Perhaps a finger meets her lips—
And silence fills the hall.

For Sally found her way back home,
Where memories never end,
Still guarding every precious book,
Like each one was a friend.

No grave could take her far away,
No darkness from above,
For Sally still remains somehow,
In the job she always loved.