Tattered Tomes and Time Travel

One of my most treasured possessions is a tattered hardback copy of Tom's Midnight Garden by Philippa Pierce. With the gold spine lettering dim from library use, it was a small miracle I discovered it in the first place. I can't recall the circumstances which led my feathering fingers to it, but I bless them, because it has been a mental keepsake ever since.

It was such a charm for me that a certain librarian was lobbied to accept a new copy in exchange for this one. Thankfully, she overcame her puzzlement and accepted. My copy is velvet and vellichor and comfort decades in the crafting.

It's accompanied me on my every adventure since, bright and dark, as I've wandered many thousands of miles. As my steps slowed after the birth of our daughter a few years ago, it stood by, patiently waiting. It didn't need to wait long. It was one of the first tomes I pulled off the shelf to read to little Sprocket over feeding (that's her nickname, don't phone any oversight agencies).

I'd settle us into our plush chair, nestle her into her purpose built crescent pillow, get her started on her bottle and tuck into the story. She and I were on the periphery as Tom tiptoed down the stairs, walked garden walls, fought frustration, nurtured a friendship. I thought I knew the whole story.

It had another surprise in store, it turned out.

Relating Tom's epiphany in the final pages, I almost startled at the feeling of threatening tears. Fruitlessly fighting them in the silence of Sprocket's room, I choked through the last page, salty splashes escaping their bounds and dropping onto her onesie with the tiniest plipping sounds only audible in a silent room.

Sprocket, unsympathetic in her slumber, gave a sighing puff.

I sat in the silence for a while, wondering at myself. I'm not the type given to emotional display, and stretched my mind across years recalling the last time I'd openly wept. It started to make more sense when I flipped to the inside of the back cover, though.

An old chronicler of time I'd half forgotten about. The memories of my interaction with it came racing back as I studied it in the moment:

Constance, my first crush. I was thrilled to have picked the same book she had. Via some program or another she'd come down to tutor our class, and I'd feign trouble with problems just so she'd kneel next to my desk and explain them.

The unknown high schooler eight years my senior, whose continued interest in this book I puzzled at until I got there myself.

The other Justin, whose need to check the book out twice in order to finish it I felt smug superiority toward at the time.

My brother, who apparently got yet another case of "anything you can do" on November 10, 1995, after my four day stint of reading it.

My beloved middle school English teacher, Mrs. Barnett, doing me the deep honor of taking me up on a book recommendation.

My return trip to the story in high school, my refined signature with its initial initial and all.

And then I came back to present, looking at our little Sprocket, whom we'd struggled so much to finally meet. So much had passed beneath our bridge, my wife and I...and then she came sailing along.

So many ways she wouldn't have been, and we avoided them all. We'd thought our time was running out.

I closed the cover, dried my eyes, overwhelmed with gratitude...

...for our clock had struck thirteen.