I sometimes daydream about owning a used bookstore. Several years ago, we were in Annapolis and discovered a tiny one-room bookshop with dark shelves filled with dusty used, new, rare and remarkable books. It is that store I envision (but with a little coffee shop in back).
Last weekend we toured Annapolis and I nearly cried. It was gone. Saddened, we wandered up to the State House, down a crooked street or two. We found another little bookstore. It looked so much like the original. A tad bigger. A coffee shop in the back. They had moved. Grown. Into the perfect shop.
There, a bell jangles over the door. A globe and puffy leather chairs are tucked among books randomly discarded after the notions within them have been plucked. Absorbed. Behind a counter and a mountain of books, sits Mary or Janice, so you see only the top of their head. Or a hand waving hello.
It’s quiet. Warm. Where a neighborhood regular can read his newspaper and sip from a big red coffee mug. Where we could duck out of the weather. And so did a dog. Where the love of books is written on the walls, and a big, soft stuffed bear is waiting with Alice in Wonderland to read along.
I returned twice more. To memorize where they are. To know the women behind the pages. And to take home a tad more remarkable magic from The Annapolis Bookstore upon which to dream.
