The Bookshelf

The Bookshelf sat at the corner of Davies St. just past the old hazel tree. The derelict store, with its crooked walls and stain glass windows had stood there for over half a century, its green door welcoming anyone who bustled in to take refuge from the cold December air in amongst the towering shelves and the pillars of hard-bound volumes that covered most of the floor, or at the little café in the corner that always had hot chocolate, or apple cider, or tea on hand for weary patrons. Mr. Edinburgh, the shopkeeper, was ancient from the day the shop was opened. He was a gangling sort of man whose face was made up mostly of silver eyebrows, and he dandied amongst the shelves day and night, taking part in idle chit-chat with everybody that entered his store, whether it be young Bobby Pollen, who perused the romance section when he thought no one was watching, or Satoo Greensby, who always seemed to be buried deep within the history books, or even the stray cat who wandered in from under the hazel to lounge atop the counter. He named it Freckles, because he hadn’t the heart to ask it its pronouns and Freckles seemed like a perfectly neutral name, thank you. He always made sure to leave the cat the latest copy of the local paper – Freckles liked to know what was going on with the Transit.

           Everyone who ever visited The Bookshelf left with an excited little twinkle in the corners of their eyes, a laugh playing about their lips, and an armful of books, though no one ever remembered buying them. When Mariah Thompson was in fourth grade, her mother and father brought her to the sanctuary of its walls in hopes of finding her suitable sources for a project on the Haudenosaunee Confederacy. Mr. Edinburgh, with his cheeky grin and waggling eyebrows, immediately greeted her with the grandest of bows before leading her through the twists and turns to a little nook between the shelves that was clearly meant for her. Here sat a little house of books, lined inside with blankets and pillows, and a small table with a matching mug of hot chocolate. As the day ticked on, book after book would appear on her table, lining up to be read. By the time the shop was closing, Mariah left with a pile of books so tall, she couldn’t carry them on her own and she had to ask her mother for help.

She returned every Wednesday after, arm in arm with her mother and father, and then just her father, and then by herself. When she left for University, she didn’t come back for several months, until one bright December morning, when the frost had glazed over the windows to cast intricate designs over the dusty tomes and the old, tattered carpet. She thumbed through the stacks before Mr. Edinburgh spotted her, guiding her past shelves after shelves to the ones she would need. There was a place for her here, as well. Not the book-house of old, but something more suitable and equally as plush – just what she needed.

           That was just the way of The Bookshelf – you didn’t have to know exactly what you were looking for, but somehow you would always find it, nestled in the back of the teetering shelves, or in one of the catalogued stacks. Whether it be first editions, with pages that withstood the test of time, history embedded into every word, every clean dab of ink on typeface against page; or the latest trade paperback of a reprint, destined to be read and bent and twisted, dog-eared and scribbled in, until laced with stories not their own – they were all held within the staggered shelves, just waiting for their time.

When young Bobby Pollen, was no longer called ‘young’ or ‘Bobby’ at all, but rather Robert, or sometimes even Mr. Pollen, and he bustled around the streets in his long overcoat and scarf, every bit the business man, he could still be found, on the second Saturday in December, sneaking into the Romance section when he was certain no one could see. He would curl up in same deep emerald armchair he’d always sat in and pour through endless volumes, flushing at the truest depth of human emotion as it danced across the page with all the whimsy of his childhood. And Satoo Greensby, who upped and moved away to the city to marry a charming young woman named Annie, popped by with her wife when she last was in town, the two of them embraced, from open to close, in the confines of Ancient Egypt, running their fingers down the Coptic-style bindings of books older than the store itself.

These days the green door is chipped and peeling, sitting awkwardly in its frame so that every now and again, a particularly persistent wind can creep in around the edges to rustle the pages of the nearby books. Even still, Mr. Edinburgh greets the wind with a wistful smile and sets out new books by the doors, just in case there is something that takes its fancy. Freckles no longer visits The Bookshelf, but the daily paper sits on the splintering counter, awaiting the old cat just the same.

The old bookkeeper, whose silver eyebrows seem just a little whiter with every passing snow, still hobbles around the shop, though with more difficulty than before. He still banters back and forth with his customers through the day, still keeps the shop open until late in the evening, although, every once in a while, you can catch him dozing away in one of the shop’s armchairs. And in the evenings, long after Mr. Edinburgh has been tucked-in for the night, the little old bookshop stretches its weary walls, gives itself a dust, and sets about restocking itself for the day ahead.

The Bookshelf has stood on the corner of Davies St. for over half a century, its crooked walls a sanctuary to anyone who passes by the old hazel tree in the middle of December, when the snow falls in thick, downy flakes, and the drifts pile up in the street. And I hope it always will.