It gets dark so early now, this late in November, this far north, and the library is cold. I am at the front desk of my library. It's not even half past five in the evening, but it feels strangely like it's two in the morning. I was woken up at six this morning by loud machinery doing some kind of strange grinding on the street in front of where we live. And then, with that dismal door thrown open, sadness dogged my heels the rest of the day.
At work, all my favorite co-workers have applied for slightly better-paying, minor promotions at other library branches. One has already accepted and will be leaving here. I could perhaps bear this one's departure, I have managed before, but the next one considering an offer I would find fairly devastating, both cumulatively and particularly. And then it would only get worse from there.
A mother carries a small child in her arms, past my desk off to the Children's Room. The child is wearing a colorful tiara. As I regard the wee princess she turns her head and looks at me. Her face blossoms into a smile and she waves enthusiastically at me.
So at least there's that.
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