Lynda MacGibbon

Christmas at the Odd Book

It is possible, I’ve discovered,
to take up residence in a bookshop 
for just 24 hours starting
at closing time on Christmas Eve
and staying all the way
through Christmas Day
 
It happened at least once 
said the white-haired chap
behind the counter at the Odd Book
in between his forays up the stairs to 
carry down more books as if
the thousands sitting on shelves 
weren’t already enough to keep 
one woman company on her not so 
solitary seasonal sojourn

It’s not a far stretch to imagine her 
bidding farewell to the bookseller
as he gently disappears into the dusk 
of a winter’s night, while
she pours herself a wee dram
of whisky left behind 
for just such an occasion as this 

It’s more difficult to conjure up
who slipped off the shelves first
friends she’d known her whole life
or strangers eager to make the acquaintance
of someone bound by the belief that 
books make excellent companions 
everyday of the year
but especially on December 25th