Chapter 8 #2
He sighed in relief. “You’re a legend, Henry,” he said, and he went to find a chair in our corner.
Olivia arrived on time for once, and, to my curiosity, Wren followed directly behind her.
“Henry,” Olivia smiled, and she handed me one of my cashmere sweaters. I stared at it in confusion.
“I borrowed it last month.”
“I’ve been looking for this,” I said.
“I was cold.” She patted my arm before walking over to the rest of the group.
Wren approached me quietly as I was still staring at my missing sweater that had been in Olivia’s possession this whole time.
“Still taking on new members?” she asked.
I smiled at her. I was quietly thrilled she’d returned. “We absolutely are. Go take a seat, Max will—”
Max breezed through the door in the same way he always did, perplexed that everyone wasn’t already sitting down and ready to begin.
“We’ll be starting shortly,” I said, softly.
She smiled and wandered over to where Olivia had sat down, sitting next to her.
“Ready, Henry?” Max asked.
“Of course,” I replied, and I took a seat.
“I think we will start with a poem,” Max said. “Emerson, care to pick something at random?”
Emerson shifted in her seat. “You bet,” she replied. “I’ve just recently found this new poet and I’m really enjoying her book.”
Max joined his hands in his lap. “Take it away, Emerson,” he said.
Emerson cleared her throat and read the first line. “And then one day you were gone—”
“Emerson,” Rita interrupted. “Is this really poetry or one of those millennial self-guided books? What about e.e. cummings or Sylvia Plath? Back in my day—”
“Well, it’s not your day anymore, Rita,” Emerson snapped. “If you don’t like it, then go sit somewhere else in the library.”
I caught the shock on Wren’s face, as Olivia turned around in her chair to stifle a laugh.
“What Emerson probably meant, Rita,” Max interjected, “is that poetry comes in all different kinds of forms, these days.”
“No, I literally meant she could go sit somewhere else. This is, like, my favorite book right now.”
Winnie placed a hand on Emerson’s shoulder and squeezed.
Rita looked at me with her nose scrunched and annoyance written all over her face. “Henry, as the librarian, surely you would appreciate what is and isn’t poetry.”
“Yes, I am a librarian,” I replied softly, patiently, “but I happen to think Emerson’s book is definitely a book of poetry.”
Emerson grinned triumphantly.
“I also happen to think that we should be a little patient introducing new forms of art to people who perhaps may not be familiar with them.” And I looked at Emerson pointedly.
She sighed sheepishly. “I’m sorry, Rita,” she said, “I promise that this book is really good.”
Rita shrugged. “Well, I do enjoy listening to you read, Emerson,” she replied. “I’m happy to listen to this one too.”
I couldn’t tell if Max was thrilled at this interaction or annoyed, but he indicated for Emerson to continue the poem. She began to read again:
And then one day you were gone—and I was filled with all the reminders of you.
I found your scarf, and letters, books and photographs, your toothbrush and favorite sweater, and I put them all in a box.
You were everywhere and yet gone. I desperately wondered what to do—for if there was no trace of you, then surely the grief would leave—so I got rid of the box.
But I was wrong; the grief never left.
It stayed, and I wish I’d kept your sweater.
There was a clunking sound and I noticed Wren had dropped her water bottle.
She appeared flustered, almost as though she was about to be sick.
She quickly stood and disappeared behind the fiction aisle toward the bathrooms. Max continued and asked the group how the poem had made them feel, and I wondered if I should check on Wren.
“What did you think, Henry?” Max asked, and I was brought back to the circle.
I cleared my throat. “I have a box of Jacob’s old things, the last box in fact that I have held on to, and today I stood staring at it for well over half an hour, wondering if I should keep it or throw it away. But I think my question has been answered.”
“What are you going to do?” Bobby asked.
“I’m going to put Jacob’s picture back on my mantelpiece,” I replied.
Bobby smiled at me. “I think that’s a great idea.”
Wren eventually returned to her seat, and Olivia whispered something in her ear.
She nodded in response, and I could only assume everything was okay.
Before I could announce that Winnie had made lemon meringue pie, Max gave me a pointed look, as if to say that it was my turn to announce my grand plans.
I stood up and clapped my hands together.
This was often something I did: I’d clap to get people’s attention, despite the fact it always made at least half of our little group (mainly the older folks) jump out of their skin.
“I have something I want to suggest to you all,” I said. “I’ve put some thought into this, and I’m hoping you’ll all consider it with enthusiasm.”
“You’re going to start providing dinner?” Bobby asked, hopeful.
“Pizza would be nice from time to time,” Gill agreed.
“Well, no,” I stammered, “that’s not exactly—”
“It could be one pizza,” Winnie suggested. “We’d all get a slice. Emmy and I could share a slice for even numbers.”
“As long as it’s cheese,” Emerson replied. “I don’t like too many toppings, it just ruins the entire experience.”
“It really does,” Julian interjected. “It should be a rule of three toppings or less.”
“Well, what about those of us who enjoy lots of toppings? Perhaps we could get two pizzas, one with minimal toppings and one with lots,” Rita debated.
We were way off track as usual.
“How about we let Henry tell us what he’s thinking?” Max said, with a smile.
Thank you, Max. Ever the diplomat.
“A poetry evening,” I said, and everyone gave me a quizzical look.
“Held here at the library, of course,” I continued.
“We can each write our own poem, or even a couple of poems, about what we have felt since joining this group, maybe even what we have discovered or are continuing to discover, and we’ll read them out here in front of an audience.
” I paused, gauging their reactions. “I just think it could be a really meaningful way for us to celebrate how far we’ve come, and to connect with other people in town.
Poetry gives us a chance to process things differently, to say the things we sometimes can’t in conversation.
And sharing it with others might be scary, but it could also be powerful.
A reminder to ourselves and anyone listening that we’re not alone in this. ”
The room fell silent for a beat. I could see some skeptical faces, but also a few glimmers of interest—curiosity, maybe even possibility.
“You mean get up in front of people?” Emerson asked. She sounded horrified.
“Well, yes,” I replied. “But it wouldn’t just be for us.
This could be a way to connect with others in the community who are grieving, too, or even just those who want to support us.
Maybe it’s a chance for the library to start something bigger—other grief initiatives, more support groups, who knows?
Maybe the library could be not only a place for book borrowing but a place of healing too. ”
Emerson still looked uncertain.
“We’d sell tickets, have some catering, and tea of course,” I added.
Julian cleared his throat. “But we aren’t poets,” he said.
“We don’t have to be poets,” I replied reassuringly. “It doesn’t have to be perfect. You could write together or pick a favorite poem from a book and talk about it, or even write a letter. It’s about expression, not perfection.”
Julian seemed to relax, his shoulders loosening. “Oh. Well, that seems okay, then. I’m not much of a writer.”
“What would we wear?” Rita wondered, and then her face brightened. “We could get all dressed up! Like they do at the awards shows.”
Bobby shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his voice hesitant. “Are we going to have security?” he asked. “What if…what if someone shows up who isn’t there to support us? Someone who just wants to cause trouble?”
I hadn’t thought about this. I knew Bobby’s story: family members who didn’t accept his queerness, the fear of being ridiculed or hurt in a space that should feel safe. I’d need to make sure that wouldn’t happen.
“Will there be enough seats?” Gill wondered. “I’m sure half the retirement home would like an evening out.”
“Just as long they understand that it’s not all poetry from the fifteenth century,” Emerson remarked.
I held up my hands in surrender. “Lots of questions,” I agreed. “And a lot of planning, but my main point tonight was just to bring the idea up.”
They were all looking at me as if they still needed convincing.
Max suggested everybody go home and think about it, and we could reconvene to discuss at the next meeting. He added that he believed the idea was a positive step in everyone’s healing. Although, frankly, I think he just added that in to make me feel more hopeful.
When everyone broke away to talk amongst themselves, I found Wren.
“Are you okay?” I asked, remembering her dash to the bathroom. “Sometimes these meetings can be a little overwhelming in the beginning.”
“Oh, I’m fine,” she replied. “I just…was moved…by the poem…”
I smiled. “Oh yeah, it’s a lovely little book.
It’s called Hope for Tomorrow. Emerson brought it in one day, and I noticed how worn the cover was, the pages warped from being read so much.
You can tell it’s well loved. I’ve met a lot of librarians who say there is nothing like a new book, which is true, but I have always got a soft spot for the ones that have been read over and over.
There’s just something about them…like they’ve lived, you know? ”
She softened. “I’ve always loved well-worn books too.”
“You know I’ve been struggling with getting rid of the last of Jacob’s things. It’s serendipitous, I think, that Emerson picked that particular poem.”
“I’ve always found it rather amazing, actually, that what we need can come to us just by a simple piece of writing.”
“Well, that’s exactly why I’ve ordered more of B.W. Paisley’s books. She has quite a few that I haven’t read but I’m sure Emerson will enjoy.”
Wren went pale again.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes,” she responded. “I’ve just remembered I left the lids off the paint cans this afternoon, and I need to get back, or else it’ll all dry up.”
“I really hope you’ll come back, Wren,” I said. “And the poetry evening, I think it would bring a lot of joy to Everston.”
She nodded slowly. “I can’t promise anything, Henry,” she said.
Olivia suddenly appeared beside me. “A poetry evening,” she said. “I don’t suppose you’ve contacted any local reporters?”
I folded my arms. “Well, why would I do that, when we’ve got the best right here?”
She looked at me with her eyebrows raised. “This has nothing to do with the fact that most other networks would be thrilled to see me in a mandatory grief counseling group because of the incident.”
I feign insult. “You think so low of me.”
Olivia sighed. “I’m still on desk duty,” she admitted.
“I know,” I replied. “You forget that Colin comes in here once a week with his grandkids.”
“What incident?” Wren asked, and my face broke into a grin.
“One day I’ll tell you,” Olivia replied.
“Oh, come on Liv,” I pleaded. “It’s an amazing story…”
She held up her hand. “I’ll speak with some colleagues and see what Colin would think of this. But you know what he’s like, he’s only after ratings.”
“You’re just going to have to sell it to him,” I quipped.
Wren looked from Olivia to me and then back again. “You’re really not going to tell me the story?”
Olivia only returned a smile.
“Henry,” Winnie called, “where do you keep your cake slicer?”
I excused myself from Olivia and Wren. I could only imagine what Winnie was trying to use to slice up the lemon meringue pie.