The Consistency of Bookstores

During the holidays last year, I flew to the east coast to visit family. It was hot despite the season and lighthearted despite the circumstances; between treks out to farms to reconnect with our heritage and trips to the city to reconnect with our careers, I found myself at the local Barnes & Noble. Every visit to the area involved at least one trip to that particular Barnes & Noble, so it was a comfort to return.  

I spent the better part of an hour wandering the YA section. I'd been sniffing around for the print edition of the Webtoon "Hooky," which had been on my wish list for quite some time, but I figured I wasn't going to find it there; I was just browsing for something to take home with me. I made a mental list of everything I was drawn to, trying to narrow it down as I went. (That obviously didn't work, but it was worth a shot.)  

Overwhelmed with the books in YA, I moved to the back of the store, where the lacquered tree illustration loomed over a little stage and shelves that were half the height of the ones in the rest of the store. I adore the kids' section in Barnes & Noble. It has a way of transporting me back to elementary school, when I would crouch on the balls of my feet to pick out a Disney Fairies book or test my luck in finding a Bella Sara novel. There's nothing like it to remind me that the love of stories is timeless. 

I meandered toward the window in the corner, grinning to myself as I spotted books from my childhood peering at me from the shelves: "Esperanza Rising," the Percy Jackson series, "Anne of Green Gables," "Moon Over Manifest," Raina Telgemeier's graphic novels. I know it's cliché to describe the books of my youth as "old friends," but that's exactly what it feels like. 

Waiting for me on an endcap as I rounded the corner was "Hooky." I even stumbled backwards a couple inches in pure, surprised happiness when I saw it. Never have I snatched something off a shelf so fast. 

I clutched it in my arms with the same excitement as an auburn-headed fifth-grader carting around Cornelia Funke's "Dragon Rider," sneaking glances at the pages while I perused the aisles in search of my brother. I could feel the paperback spine against my palms as I watched rows and rows of books pass behind me at my leisurely pace; like looking at the stars, they were peaceful in their familiarity yet excitingly unknown. The page edges danced beneath my fingertips as I flipped through them while standing in the checkout line, skimming the colorful illustrations while leaning against the wall outside — so engrossed in the story that I didn't see my family walking right past me out to the parking lot. So lost in the narrative that I missed the lunch bell.