Today, across the country from my city library, I wonder about the homeless people who haunted its doorway. Where do they shelter now?
I think about the empty children’s room and the happy toddlers I used to see there. How will they remember these days?
Shadowy people, conversant with chilly weather, flank the sun-warmed library entrance. In the stacks, a man dozing in a wheelchair moves aside so I can peruse the prosperity gospels. I clutch the one that falls onto my face. A mother and a little girl holding a multicolored unicorn share the elevator with me. The door opens to reveal a sunny, flower-filled meadow instead of the base of the stairs. The fragrant air is full of bird song. Just ahead, I see a long buffet spread with a delicious feast. Should I go back upstairs and call all the others?