Diane D. Gillette

We’re All Just Trying to Make It to January 2nd

After another sleepless night as Christmas draws nearer, the raw loneliness magnifies under the illumination of twinkling holiday lights. I am drawn once more to the library, telling myself that being surrounded by books will soothe my rumpled soul, prevent my brain from pressing so hard into my skull that I begin to see things that aren’t really there, a waking dream that is a poor substitute for the real thing. I walk around with greasy circles under my eyes and cracker crumbs in the folds of my hoodie. I hum the tune of Joy to the World under my breath. I haunt the library like a parakeet escaped from my cage, worried that it is only a matter of time before they toss me out the backdoor like a Christmas tree on January 2nd.
I am really there to see the librarian. He is the only balm for what ails me. My insides feel medium-rare and listening to all the words the librarian gives me lets me ease back into a buttery comfort for a couple of hours each day.
The librarian doesn’t look at all like a librarian. His sinewy arms can carry a stack of library books the size of Santa’s knapsack from the return bin to the “to-shelve” cart without breaking a sweat. The sides of his head are shaved, and the thick mane that is left flows into a gorgeous tail that cascades down his back and curls at the tip. I have to swallow my heart every time I see him wiping down the circulation desk with a lemon-scented rag until it shines like a spoon, pre-Thanksgiving dinner.
I think I am half in love with him, despite his ill-proportioned eyes-to-ears ratio. But those too large eyes light up when I walk in. Today he is hanging red and green construction paper chains around the children’s section. A stack of holiday-themed picture books waits on the table near the window display.
He’s always happy to see me. Not because he is half in love with me, but because he has too many words inside him for a workplace with a mandatory quiet policy. Every day, he gives them to me to carry away. He spouts frantic ribbons of news/gossip/recommendations, and I can see the visible relief of avoiding yet another near-injury due to forced muteness as I swallow them one after another. My sleeplessness takes on substance. He needs me.
I need him. A sky-blue, pleather reading chair empties, and I carry the librarian’s words with me, curl around them and close my eyes. It is only then that I can sleep, brief and dreamless that it may be. Half awake-asleep, curled in the library chair, I fear that maybe I don’t love the librarian. Maybe I am addicted to him. To his words. To the way he lights up from the inside out, a star guiding me to salvation, knowing I will listen to everything he has to say. His words sit in the pit of my stomach like polished pennies in a Christmas stocking. I worry they will grow into horns and puncture me so everything inside me will escape, and I will deflate and then no one will be there the next day to gather up the librarians’ many urgent words, and I will never make it to New Year’s Day when things will maybe start to right themselves again.