I remember having my cards read at Blackletter Books a number of years ago, and the reading was freakily accurate. Reassuring, actually. I felt understood. And now, years later, when I wanted to go back, it was closed. I stood on the sidewalk with my camera and memories and a woman walked up to me and said, “It’s closed, you know.” Then she walked away.
On the door, now barricaded behind an iron grate, was the word Welcome, and a painting of an old man holding a lamp. The Hermit, from the Tarot deck. I looked it up at home. Something about a journey and mysterious adventure. Withdrawing and returning. I used to find him a little spooky, but now it was okay. Reassuring.