The Book Lady

By Julia Di Lorenzo

            I call her book lady. Walking down the streets of New York City, I noticed her. Her hair green kelp and her eyes like green snakes waiting to prance on her next prey. Behind her, she carried a bag of books, all old and broken. She didn’t have any good book either. Her expansive collection did not include a copy of The Catcher in the Rye or even To Kill a Mockingbird. I couldn’t see all her books, but the one lying on top of the pile had the face of z doll on it whose eyes glared back at mine. Book Lady had stopped on the street to rearrange her collection of books. As I passed, she seemed irritated by my presence. Almost as irritated as my dad, that time my brother threw his wedding ring down the toilet.  After fixing her most prized possessions, she continued to walk on, walking and walking. It is impossible to say where she was dragging her books to, but it’s nice to think of where she brings them. Detached from the world, she takes her friends around the world and shows it to them. In return, they share with her their beautiful words that fill the pages cover to cover; this relationship is as mechanical as clockwork. In the grand-scheme of the universe, she’s invisible; most people deeming her unworthy of a passing glance. But she has a story too: A story of tears, a story of joy, the story of her life. Maybe that’s why she carries around all those books all the time, because no one will stop and listen to her story. But her bag of books will always be there, sharing their stories with her.