The Library Sings
The sound came from the nonfiction stacks. A lovely sound, low and feminine. The kind of sound that starts in the chest and rises not to escape the throat, but to leave it wanting.
It had been a long day. The reference librarian had been yelled at over masks, over food, and over noise. He was over confronting patrons.
But other patrons would complain, or worse, do something about it themselves. He picked his way toward the singer, finding little things to do along the way. As he got closer, he heard not just humming but caught a word here and there and a beautiful tone of someone who does not know others can hear them. The singer's voice was unguarded and lovely.
He straightened several books that had fallen. Found a cozy mystery with a log cabin on the front to fill the "Winter Reads" display. He piled several anatomy books that had been scattered on a table and wondered what she looked like, the singer.
Was she young or old? Not a girl, not by the strength of the voice. The sound came from experienced vocal cords. Or training, but who with training wastes it in the library?
His mother had been a singer. Used it for God, she said. Every Sunday up there in a rented robe with the other moms of the church.
What kind of church made you rent a robe to sing for free? he asked her one time.
All for His glory, she had said.
His mother's voice had been lost among the others. Wasted.
Would the library singer be wearing a dress or something casual? A shirt and jeans, maybe a hoodie? Simple and unconscious like her voice. Just popping in to get some holds and got lost in the stacks. Singing to herself.
His mother sang to herself. Herself and God. While cooking or cleaning or sewing, she would raise notes to the ceiling. Sometimes songs from her youth. Sometimes songs and tunes she made up. Never hymns. She saved those for church, the reference librarian figured.
At last, he could not put it off. He felt bad about confronting the singer, but he had to know. She had to become flesh and blood and not just a song drifting through the air of a quiet library.
And there she was.
Shelving books.
The children's librarian stopped singing and waved two fingers.
He waved two fingers back, side to side. He said, "Heard you singing."
"Oh my God, I'm sorry," she said.
No. It was lovely, is what he wanted to say. It was the best part of my day, my week. More than I knew I wanted.
"Dont worry about it," he said.
"Did someone complain?"
He said, "No. Need any help?"
"I think I have it. Boring at the desk?"
"I'll go back. Sorry," he said, not knowing why he apologized.
"I'll keep it down," she said and he turned away.
He did not want her to stop, but he left it at that.