Page 21 of The Words of Us

I blink, pulling myself back to the present. “Yeah, sorry. Just thinking about everything, I guess.”

He sets the box down and leans against the counter. “This place means a lot to you and to everyone who comes through that door. It’s a big thing, what you’re doing.”

I nod, feeling the weight of his words settle around me. “Sometimes it feels like I’m just holding on, you know? Like I’m trying to keep all the pieces together.”

Kenneth smiles, the kind that reaches his eyes. “You’re doing more than that. You’re building something. And you’re damn good at it.”

I smile back, grateful for his steady presence. Kenneth is more than just an employee; he’s a friend, someone who understands the unspoken layers of this place.

As the day wears on, the bookstore transforms piece by piece, taking on the look and feel of a space ready for something magical. I finish arranging the last few chairs and step back, taking it all in. The room is ready, waiting to be filled with voices and stories, with laughter and nerves and the kind of moments that kept me coming back, night after night.

I wander to the counter and pick up one of my grandmother’s old poetry books, thumbing through the pages. I find a passage Ilove, one she used to read to me when I was young, and I let the words wash over me, grounding me in the memory of her voice.

The bell above the door chimes again, and I look up, half-hoping it might be Sasha. But it’s just the wind this time, a gentle reminder that not everything comes when you want it to. I tuck the book under my arm and glance around the empty bookstore, feeling the quiet anticipation that fills the space. It’s a different kind of stillness, one that isn’t empty but expectant, like the bookstore itself is holding its breath, waiting for the night to begin.

I find myself standing by the front door, watching the sun dip lower outside, casting long shadows across the street. In just a few hours, this place will be full again, buzzing with life and voices echoing off the walls. And though I love the noise, people, and stories they bring, it’s these quiet moments I cherish most. The calm before the crowd, the stillness before the first poem is read.

I turn my attention back to the poetry book in my hands, tracing the faded gold lettering on the cover. It was my grandmother’s favorite, a collection of poems about love, loss, and the unbreakable ties of family. She used to read from it at every open mic night, her voice strong and clear, filling the room with a warmth that never failed to make people feel seen.

I miss her terribly at times like this, miss the way she could make everything seem so effortless. I miss my mother, too, in a different way—miss the idea of what we could have been. But standing here, in the place that has been my sanctuary and my inheritance, I feel their presence woven into every corner of this bookstore.

I put the book back on the shelf behind the counter and take a deep breath, letting the familiar smells of paper and ink settle my nerves. Tonight will be like every other night—different faces, new poems, the same electric energy that makes this placecome alive. And yet, it will also be new, filled with possibilities I can’t quite see yet.

My wanders to Sasha, of her laughter that morning, of the way she fit so naturally into the bookstore, like she’d always belonged. I find myself hoping she’ll show up tonight, that she’ll walk through the door and take her place among the other voices. I want her to be a part of this, to see what makes this place so special, to understand why it matters so much to me.

As the sun dips lower and the light outside turns soft and golden, I close my eyes and let myself imagine it—Sasha in the audience, a smile tugging at her lips as she listens to the words of strangers, finding her own place in the rhythm of the night.

The bookstore is ready. The chairs are set, the lights dim just enough to make the space feel cozy, and the refreshments are laid out on the table. It’s Saturday night, the biggest night of the week, the night when the bookstore truly comes alive.

Saturday nights have always been special. They are different from the quieter midweek events—bigger, louder, with a little more energy in the air. People don’t just come to read or listen; they come to connect, to let loose a bit, to celebrate the week’s end with poetry, music, and each other. It’s a night of possibility and new beginnings, and I always feel a certain thrill in the air as the hour approaches.

There’s a tradition I’ve kept going since my grandmother’s time: opening the night with a poem. It’s my way of setting the tone and inviting everyone into the space, and it’s something I look forward to each week. But tonight, the choice feels more important, more significant somehow. Maybe it’s because of the memories that have surfaced throughout the day or the hopethat Sasha might walk through the door. Whatever it is, I want to choose something that captures the spirit of the night—the joy, the energy, and the subtle undercurrent of something new, something exciting.

I move through the shelves, my fingers trailing over the spines of the books I know so well. My mind sifts through the possibilities, recalling lines and verses that have stayed with me over the years. I want something upbeat, something that will make people smile, but also something that hints at the spark of new love, at the thrill of connection that is so palpable in the air tonight.

As I scan the titles, a familiar name catches my eye: Langston Hughes. I pull the slim volume from the shelf and flip through the pages, pausing when I find the poem I’m looking for. It’s perfect—light, rhythmic, and filled with that sense of hope and joy that I want to share with everyone here tonight.

The poem I chose is "Juke Box Love Song" by Langston Hughes. It has that easy, musical quality that fits a Saturday night, and the verses speak to the simple, pure joy of love, of being swept up in a moment with someone new. It’s a poem that captures the essence of the night, the spirit of the bookstore, and the unspoken anticipation that hums beneath the surface.

I take the book with me to the small stage, placing it on the stand as people began to filter in. The familiar faces of regulars mix with newcomers, all of them settling into their seats with the casual ease that comes from knowing they are in a place where they belong. Mr. Dupree is already tuning his guitar, his fingers moving deftly over the strings, filling the space with soft, warm notes.

As I step up to the mic, the room quiets, the murmurs fading into an expectant hush. I look out at the faces in front of me, feeling a swell of affection for each and every one of them. Theseare my people, my community, and it’s moments like this that makes every long day worth it.

“Good evening, everyone,” I begin, my voice steady and warm. “Thank you all for being here tonight. As always, it’s a pleasure to see so many familiar faces—and to welcome those of you who are new. Tonight’s going to be special. I can feel it.”

There’s a ripple of agreement and a few soft laughs, and I smile, letting the energy of the room lift me up. “To start us off, I’d like to share a poem that’s always felt like a celebration to me. It’s about love, music, and the simple joy of being with someone who makes your heart dance. This is 'Juke Box Love Song' by Langston Hughes.”

I open the book, the familiar words flowing through me as I begin to read:

"I could take the Harlem night

and wrap around you,

Take the neon lights and make a crown,

Take the Lenox Avenue busses,

Taxis, subways,

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