The Library Book Was Due in 2019

found a novel in the coat pocket i haven't worn since before the pandemic. due date stamped 2019. fine probably astronomical. returned it anyway. librarian smiled. said "happens more than you'd think." ordinary life is a pile of small shames you finally address on a wednesday. afternoon nap was not planned and lasted twenty-two minutes exactly according to the stove clock. dreams were mundane and comforting. i called a friend and got voicemail and left a message about rain like a weather reporter for one listener. the mirror in the elevator showed a face i still think of as thirty until the lights agree otherwise. errands took longer because i refused to rush and that felt like victory. a clerk offered a senior discount i did not request and i accepted without performance. small economies matter when fixed income is not abstract.

I found a novel in the coat pocket I have not worn since before the pandemic. Due date stamped 2019. The fine is probably astronomical.

I returned it anyway. The librarian smiled and said it happens more than you would think.

Ordinary life at seventy-one is a pile of small shames you finally address on a Wednesday because the weather is mild and the car started.

Nobody writes essays about returning library books. Maybe they should. It is a lesson in accountability without drama: you borrowed time, you give it back, the institution survives your forgetfulness.

I checked out a new book. Different genre. Optimism or stubbornness.

I do not need a moral. I need an honest next step. Sometimes that is rest. Sometimes it is showing up again before you feel ready.

The story continues in the body after the words stop. Shoulders lower, or they do not. Tomorrow arrives with its own list. I am still here, which is not nothing.

Know someone who should read this?