When I was vacuuming tiny gold stars from the library’s rug yesterday, in the hour when the tired after school kids were getting picked up and before the adult readers appeared, I noticed the carpet, hard-worn when I arrived as the sole employee, was even more shabby. A splotch of yellow paint, snips of pink yarn, dog hair that perpetually sloughs off a few small patrons. The carpet has been used by all sizes of feet.
The walls are covered with kid art, colored paper chains hang from the ceiling, donations for the pie breakfast book sale line the walls.
Although I was so tired I considered lying down on the floor before the reading group, the adults arrived with incredible enthusiasm. The kids made popcorn and kicked a soccer ball in the other room, with a strange sound like someone banging her head against a wall I (futilely) tried to ignore.
I heated water for tea. What do goals mean in a lifetime, anyway?
Here’s one of mine: heat water for a thousand cups of tea in this one-room library.
I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.
— Jorge Luis Borges