The Book Shoppe

I was born in 1973 to Joan and Craig Myers. They were a rather odd couple, passionate about each other and the stories that the world held. I would listen to them everyday when they shared with each other the words of men and women who all seemed to live in their own universes. 

Only a few days after I was brought to life, I met Annie. I will never forget her. She was a young lady at the time, around the age of 20, and her chestnut hair bobbed around her shoulders. She seemed to glow with energy, excitement a part of everything she did. 

Annie had been hurrying down the street, a shopping list in her hand on which ingredients for a Christmas dinner had been scribbled down. My shiny new face caught her eye and she paused to turn to face me. She carefully tucked the list into a pocket and began to wonder towards me. 

She was greeted by my mother. 

“Hello, my dear,” she said. “I’m Joan. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Hi there Joan. My name is Annie. I just thought I’d come in and maybe treat myself a little this Christmas.”

“Of course,” my mother nodded. “Just take your time and look around.”

“Thank you.”

I remember how Annie walked, slowly, as if not to make a sound. It tickled when her fingers brushed against the books that lined my shelves. 

It took her a moment, but she eventually found what she wanted and walked over to my mother. 

“I’ll take this please,” Annie announced.

“Sure. That’ll be $5.99”

“Here you go.” She fished the money out of her purse and paid.

After the transaction was finished, Annie walked out of the door, hugging the new book close to her chest.

 I knew then that I had brought Annie joy. That was my purpose, I realised, to spread happiness, beauty, sometimes sadness, with my stories. I had been created to allow people to experience life in their own way and through the lense of others. 

That was not the last time I saw Annie, and Annie was not the only person I met. Every day new people would arrive at my doorstep. At first there were only a few, but as time passed, there began to be countless new faces. I became popular. Sometimes familiar faces would come to visit me again. They would talk with my parents about how I had affected their lives and how they sought to learn more from me about the world, about heartbreak, about magic and time travel, about love. 

This was my life for many years. I would feed people knowledge and life and in return they would feed my desire to spread this knowledge, this beauty that my many perspectives put on life. Over time, faces changed.

“I wonder why we never see old Charles anymore,” my father muttered to my mother one morning. 

“Don’t you remember?” she replied. He moved away to live in England with his daughter.”

When Annie walked in one day, I smiled. I still hadn’t forgotten how happy she’d been the first day I’d met her. Her hair had become lighter but her smile remained the same, even though it added a few lines to her face.

“Joan, hi! How are you doing?” Annie asked, giving my mother a hug.

“I’m wonderful, Annie, thank you. What can I do for you today?”

“I’m here to buy a present for my daughter. It’s her twelfth birthday soon and she’s obsessed with insects at the moment, so I thought I’d buy her a factual book about them.”

“Sure! Just follow me. I’m sure we have some over here.”

Her daughter. That meant that I was influencing her family, her whole life. I beamed.

I lived through many seasons. Winter, then Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter again. I was most popular in Winter, when trees were decorated in tinsel and twinkling lights and when snow dusted my front steps. I guess people loved to share all sorts of stories during that time. 

The last time I saw Annie, she hobbled through my doors. Her hair had become fully gray and her skin sagged around the edges of her face. She still glowed with a happiness that was as bright as it had been all those 45 years ago. 

“I’d like to buy a book for my granddaughter,” she informed my mother. 

“Of course, and congratulations,” my mother smiled. 

Together they walked slowly over to the children’s section and Annie gazed over my stories. 

“That one, right there,” she indicated, pointing at a small pink cover.

After paying, she shuffled towards the door. 

“Goodbye Joan.”

“Goodbye Annie.”

She walked out, hugging the new book close to her chest.