Rearranging Stories of Healing

I stopped going to the library after my divorce. Books reminded me of who I used to

be before I became someone's disappointment. But my therapist said I needed to leave the house,

so there I was, pretending to browse the self-help section like it held answers. That's when I noticed

her. An elderly woman in a purple cardigan, rearranging books people had left

scattered. Not a librarian. Just someone who cared. She caught me staring

and smiled. I looked away. The next Saturday, she was there again. Same cardigan.

Same gentle reorganizing. This time she spoke. Your hands are shaking. Mine do that too. She showed me hers,

trembling slightly as she held a book. Parkinson's. But I still come. The books don't