Gifts

(1981)

It's Christmas Eve. I'm aimlessly walking, alone, through the drizzle down the Avenue, past crowds and colored lights, toward the sound of bells. A small, old, easily-passed-by bookstore filled with used books stops me. Curious, I try peeking in. The windows are clouds I can't see through, but when the door opens I feel the warmth of old books; they call me in.

It's dark, noisy, and damp inside. Happy/sad faces can't hide the tense, rushed joy of the Holidays, the mask of ordinary routine on-hold until after the New Year. The hum of questions, a too alive cash register, and the pressure of the dinnertime hour distracts me from any search for books. I feel like a child trapped on a rush-hour subway. Quickly, I look for a familiar title near the philosophy section, buy another copy of The Way of Zen (10 years ago Greg never returned my copy), and decide to leave.

Waiting in line to pay, I feel cold, wet, and outside more than a drizzle begins. The books around me, full of the prideful ache of history, make the 1980s—complete with television faces and undignified hurry—a mockery.

Finally the woman at the cash register takes my book. She begins to tape the front cover, which is torn at the bottom. At first I'm irritated that she's taking the time, since I'm anxious to leave (and so is everyone else waiting in the long line). But as I focus on her movements I'm sweetly engulfed in the spell of her caring. Her hands move quickly, but they're not in a hurry; her concern embraces a timelessness. I slip into an unwilled meditation, forgetting where I am or why, suddenly feeling a part of something bigger than myself. The old woman's hands and face, like the books around her, are a living song of character. In her reverence for my book—expressed in the way she gracefully nurtures it—I feel an indirect caring for me, for life itself. Something is important, something matters and requires personal, meaningful attention.

When she finishes, I give her a smiling thank-you with my eyes and walk into the new night with an unexpected gift.