Boxed love

No one understands a librarian’s love for their books. It's simple, really; but unconditional. They feel that like people, books need to be cared for, treated well, and read often. It's a strict rule that they all enforce.

But sometimes, they go too far.

Mary Jones was born with a crazy love of books. It made her stand out, but not too much. She couldn't bear to leave any story behind. Her cramped apartment was filled with all the books she found. Yard sales, thrift stores, library sales, anything that sold books; she would be there.

The one thing that never failed to break her heart was an abandoned book. The day I met her, I was moving into a new apartment and trying to get rid of some things. She saw me walking towards a big black dumpster, box full of books under my arm. Suddenly, a loud shrieking filled my ears.

"What do you think you're doing?" She yelled crazily. "Do you have any idea of what you're throwing away?" I stood, still frozen in shock from her sudden appearance. With a sigh of impatience, she ripped the box from my arms.

"I'll take those." And with that she marched off, without a goodbye.

I didn't see her again until a few years later. I was volunteering at the local library, taking books that they had no room for into the storage room. I almost didn't notice her. Sitting on the ground, wrapped in a blanket and surrounded by piles and boxes of books, I almost mistook her for a homeless person; wanting a place to sleep for the night. Then I saw her long, frizzy brown hair, thick glasses, and crazy eyes.

"You," I exclaimed in surprise. "What are you doing here?" She didn't even glance up at me when she replied.

"Keeping the books company, of course," I was incredulous.

"What, so you live down here? And not even for a legitimate reason?" Deciding that she was most definitely 'different', I turned to go. Her voice suddenly rang out behind me.

"If you were a book, where would you want to be? In a library, read by someone each week, or at least getting held, and looked at? Or maybe on some child's bookshelf, lovingly taken out and read each night?" She paused for a moment, and I turned back around.

"Now imagine never being read, never being held. Never having the delight of someone enjoy your story-so much that they share it with others; so much that even when they're not reading it, they know it's there. And sometimes, when they're sad, they take it out and just look at it. And they wish so hard that that could be their story, their life." Her voice cracked at the last word. A single tear wobbled at the edge of her face, showing just how deep her grief was. I was speechless. This lady cared so much about books it scared me, and yet at the same time amazed me. I didn't know what to say, and for the second time I turned to go.

"What's your name, young man?" She called out from her awkward position on the floor.

"Jason Black, ma’am," I replied a little nervously, noticing the sack of bread propped up against her. Was that all she ever ate? It felt symbolic for something.

"Remember this. Without a story, you are nothing. Life is nothing without a story to keep up with it; read whenever you can, and write down everything that happens. And the next time you think about throwing away a book, remember me." She laughed. "I could always use a new adventure to keep me up late at night." Then she nodded, and for the last time I turned to leave.

It was just her down there. Her, the books, and a bathroom down the hall. Sometimes I brought her food, sometimes others did. We all called her loony, made fun of her. But deep down, I was always rooting for her.

I never was much of a reader. But that first day, the day I found her in the storage room, I went home thinking. The next day, instead of walking right past the library, i stepped in. Pulling a book off one of the shelves, I let it fall open in my hands. And then I began the story.