Dav id and I were out that day doing one of those normal little trips that doesn’t feel like anything special while you’re in it. Just spending time together researching and looking for hidden gems in our neighborhood. Which is what lead us to Troops Bookstore.
I think we were already halfway through the afternoon, when we stopped in at Troop’s Bookstore because we had been out running around anyway and I said I just wanted to “look for a minute.” That’s usually how it starts. Just a quick stop. Just a few minutes. Nothing planned.
David was with me, and he was doing that thing where he lets me wander while he looks at whatever catches his attention. And I remember thinking I wasn’t going to find anything in there that day. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. Just one of those quiet in-between stops where you browse and leave.
But the second I walked in, something pulled me toward the right side of the store again. Which was the children’s section of the store and that’s where it was. A small section. Nothing dramatic. Just shelves lined with books you could easily walk past if you weren’t paying attention.
But I was paying attention. And I slowed down without even really deciding to. Because it wasn’t just a display. It was familiar in a way I didn’t expect. The colors of the books drew me in. I had to reach out and touch the books because it was like finding a old friend.
I remember standing there for a second just looking at everything before I even started picking anything up. And then I started pulling books out one by one, the same way you do when you’re not really shopping anymore—you’re remembering while you’re looking.
It wasn’t just Little Golden Books this time, it was that whole feeling attached to them that started coming back. I found a few I hadn’t seen in years. including The Poky Puppy, and others that I probably couldn’t even name right away but still recognized the second I saw the cover.
And I just stayed there longer than I meant to. Because while I was standing there flipping through them, I wasn’t really in the bookstore anymore. I was somewhere else completely. I could see pieces of life that didn’t feel like they were that long ago and somehow also feel like they belonged to a different version of everything.
I could see the house when the kids were younger. The end-of-day mess that always seemed normal at the time but looks different when you think back on it now. Shoes by the door. Bags dropped wherever they landed. Someone asking for something right as you’re trying to sit down for five minutes.
And then bedtime would come, and everything would slow down just enough. That’s when those books used to show up in our life the most. Not as something fancy or planned, just something that got pulled off a shelf because it was familiar. Something that worked when nothing else would settle the energy down at the end of the day.
I can still picture it in pieces. Someone sitting too close. A kid half-covered in a blanket but refusing to let go of the night yet. Pages turning slowly because the story was already known but still wanted again anyway. And the funny thing is, you don’t think those moments are important when you’re living them.
You think they’re just part of the routine. Just another part of getting through the day. But standing in that aisle, holding those books again, I realized those were the parts that actually stayed. Not the big events. Not the planned things. Just the everyday moments that didn’t feel like anything at the time.
I kept flipping through them for a while, not rushing it, not trying to decide anything quickly. Just letting myself stay in it longer than I probably should have. David eventually circled back around, and I think he already knew without me saying much that I wasn’t just “looking at books.”
I was somewhere else for a minute. And I think we all do that sometimes without even realizing it—something small pulls us back into a version of life we didn’t know we were still carrying around. I felt like Suzane was with me browsing the books one at a time.
Eventually I put a few back. I kept a couple in my hands for a while longer than I needed to. And we eventually moved on like you do when you’re out running errands and life keeps going whether you’re ready to leave a moment or not. But I didn’t really leave it. Not all the way. Because those kinds of memories don’t stay in the store when you walk out. They come with you.
Thank you,
Glenda, Charlie and David Cates
