Page 38 of It’s Me They Follow

It was almost too much for her. Almost.

The Shopkeeper wandered around and nervously took books off one shelf and put them on another.

For no good reason, she started repotting plants and flattening boxes and reading book jackets and unpacking and reshelving and aimlessly moving things in circles as a disembodied voice whispered in her ear, No one will come.

Then her phone rang.

“Hello, my dear,” a woman began. “May I speak to The Shopkeeper?”

“This is she,” The Shopkeeper said, trying to place the elder woman’s familiar voice.

“I am Sister Sonia.” Her voice made The Shopkeeper’s knees weak. She just happened to be looking for her copy of Sister Sonia Sanchez’s Shake Loose My Skin .

“I know we don’t know each other, My Sister, but I know the women who you come from,” she continued. “I wanted to call you and tell you some things. First, how important it is that you answered the call.”

The Shopkeeper was operating on forty minutes of sleep, so she couldn’t decide whether she was dreaming, making things up, or losing her mind. “And I want to remind you that you are not alone. Do you hear me, my sister? You never have to do a single thing alone. You are part of a tradition.”

She wanted to ask Sister Sonia so many questions about art and literature and soul, about poetry and history and love.

She also wanted to ask her how she’d gotten her phone number, but instead, she said, “Thank you, Sister Sonia. Thank you so much for your wise words, but I have to go,” because the news crew was walking in.

* * *

A few minutes later, The Shopkeeper walked outside to a huge crowd gathered in front of Harriett’s Bookshop.

There were people as far as her eyes could see.

She moved to the front of the crowd, and it erupted in cheers, except a few people in the distance, with their arms crossed and the grizzly looking woman with That Energy.

But they didn’t outshine her writers’ group, or the pizza man, the urban cowgirl, her landlord, and Ms. Harriett all clapping.

She tried to quiet everyone, but they just kept on cheering not noticing there in the front was a grandfather and a toddler he couldn’t control.

The Shopkeeper came over to them and got on one knee.

“Let’s talk?” she said to the little girl.

“She lost her parents,” the grandfather explained, with embarrassment in his eyes. “I am not sure...”

The Shopkeeper reached out her arms. And without hesitation, the little girl ran into them. She picked the girl up and turned back to the crowd. The little girl stopped crying.

“Wanna help me out?” she asked.

The little girl nodded her head yes.

“Okay. Repeat after me,” The Shopkeeper said.

“Okay.”

“The magic is you have to say it loud. Say, ‘The doors to Harriett’s Bookshop...’”

“The dows to Hawwiett’s Booksop...” she hollered.

The crowd fell silent.

“‘Are officially open!’”

“Are...” The little girl wasn’t sure about the word “officially,” so she repeated to the crowd with both hands in the air, “The dows to Hawwiett’s Booksop are offithially OPEN!”

The crowd exploded and clapped and hugged and high-fived and cheered and cried all over again. In the distance, The Shopkeeper saw ME and his August Wilson grin peeking from behind a tree. He bowed in her direction.

She bowed back.

The End .