All Thats Left

It was a cold but beautiful day outside, as I went to the park closet to workfor lunch, that I liked to do on days like this. It was a small park that offered a few benches to sit, but was rarely used, like some hidden oasis in the desert that is the city. There was one bench I liked that faced the small pond that was half encircled by various trees, which lend to the feeling of peace within the park. It was a late lunch, and the sun hung lower than the trees this day, casting golden streamers through the branches. The gleaming bands of sunlight hit the water and exploded into countless tiny, gilded sparks that danced across the slightly moving waters surface.

Distracted by the beauty of the scenery, when I arrived at the bench, I was surprised to see a man already sitting there.

“Oh, sorry.” I said and moved to leave.

“Not at all, please sit.” He offered. He smiled and I noted what a genuinely pleasant and friendly smile it seemed. “Great place to get away for a little while, eh?” Echoing my own thoughts of the place.

“My thoughts exactly.” I said and introduced myself and asked how his day was going.

“I’m called Peter.” And the rest of his answer progressed into a conversation that warped time a little and I was late back to work. Though I was glad for it, and glad for the conversation in a world that rarely seemed to look up from mobile phones these days.

Nobody noticed I was late back.

They were all on their phones.

I thought on our talk in the background of my mind for the remainder of the day. It was a nice distraction from the usual worry, stress, and responsibility that plagued mine and most adult lives. I went again the next day, and Peter was there again. We talked again, like old friends. He was an easy man to like. We talked about our lives, and he was sincerely interested in my story and what I said, and I traded that interest back in kind.

He was a widower, but had been for some time, and with a love that was obvious on his face, he admitted it was hard to see her face in his memory now after so long, so he kept a photo of her in a journal he had with him always. He had promised himself that so long as he could help it, she would not be forgotten, as they had no children, and he has done his best to put her memory in anything he could, in anyway he could. Her name was Wilhemina, but he called her Mina, or sometimes Cous-Cous in those more playful times. She always called him Peter. Always. In fact, with a bittersweetness, and eyes that betrayed his smile this one time, he recalled that his name was the last thing to pass from her lips before her final breath. It was clear, she had suffered a long battle with cancer, but Peter would not name it, because he believed things that steal such beauty from this world do not deserve names.

I learned a lot that day, and from the weeks to follow. My time with him enriched my life and I was happy to go to work those days if only for the lunch hour I sat with him.

It was a Tuesday when I went to our bench, excited to talk with Peter, but he was not there. I felt a pang of concern but convinced myself everything was fine; he could not possibly be there everyday. A cloud moved in front of the sun, and gave me a sudden chill as I sat, when I noticed a small black notebook left there, not unlike the one that Peter carried as a journal. This one looked worn, its edges turned up and frayed slightly. The cover was black but faded from its original condition by fingers and pockets and whatever else it had experienced. When I picked it up, it felt strangely soft and comforting in my grasp. Though worn, it was obviously respected, and it all added to the character of the book.

I flicked through the length of the pages, letting my thumb feel the edges as they passed. Then I folded open the cover and saw the only thing written there in black pen was his name. Yet the rest of the little book was filled with too much to convey here. Let’s just say it was a true journal, filled with rambling entries here, tidbits, drawings and lone words there. Some was confusing without context I guess, but most was easy to understand as his thoughts and feeling written down and things seen that were drawn in throughout his journey. I kept it safe to return it when I saw him next. I didn’t see him for the remainder of that week and was surprised how much I might miss what was fairly new to me. The silver lining was that everyday I went for lunch, there was another little black notebook waiting for me. Each was new and unique in its contents, as was the condition of each its own. They were fascinating in there random nature and were a close facsimile to our conversations. Each little notebook was like a little world unto itself, or had a life of their own, and most certainly a distinctive history within their pages. I valued each one with care and interest.

I expressed my gratitude for Peter sharing these with me to him when I saw him the following Monday, while trying to pass him the little stack of his journals.

He laughed, not at me, but at the idea that these were interesting to anyone but him, and with a gladness that they were. “They are yours to keep, so long as you want them.”

“I do and thank you.” I replied with a smile.

“Good.” He said while opening a backpack he had with him, and paused with one hand still hidden within, “they aren’t much good to me anymore. They have served their purpose for me, and if the things inside them have some interest for you, I am more than happy to share.” With that he pulled his hand out of his bag with some effort, and revealed a handful of these same journals, all started the same way, yet now were all different in their wear and tear. He let them drop back into the bag and passed the whole thing over to me.

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Shortly after Mina left, I was wandering through a bookstore and found one of these and felt compelled to buy a few. I was just inspired in that one moment to use them for whatever may be, if for no other reason than to help keep my mind occupied.” He explained. He paused, lost in some memory that surfaced. “Anyway, I am glad you have some appreciation in them. I would suggest you try it, and there are some new ones in there, so use those and fill them with your life.”

I said I would, and meant it, and have been doing so for many years now, including what you are reading now.

I saw Peter everyday for a couple months after that exchange, except for Wednesdays. These he never mentioned, as if the day itself did not exist. Yet, on Thursdays, he was noticeably different. Tired, pale and grey complexion, but his spirit remained as bright as ever.

Another Monday came, as they do, and though it became nearly a routine, I was still looking forward to seeing Peter. I approached the bench and saw that there was someone else sitting there. I looked to the other benches, as Peter must have moved to one of those as our regular one was being used. The park was empty of people, besides this stranger and me.

The stranger waved me over with a familiarity we did not share, and I felt a wave of despair wash over me like an icy breeze. I cursed myself for my ignorance as the weeks of missing Wednesdays became clear in my mind.

“Please, have a seat. Peter sent me.” He said pleasantly enough, though with an air of apprehension. As I sat, he continued, “I’m really sorry to have to tell you, but Peter passed away quietly last night.”

Speechless, though I recognized in myself that this was no shock. I saw it all so clearly now.

“Well,” The man interrupted my thoughts, “not quietly. He talked nearly till his last breath, which was his way. He talked much on your time with him with a great fondness. I wont trouble you for long, but he asked for m to meet you here and give you this.” He handed me another little black notebook, that had become so familiar to me. I took it from him, and felt that it had been opened, but was still crisp and new. Though it almost felt like shaking Peter’s hand. I could feel his energy in it.

It was a welcome feeling.

“Thank you.” I said and introduced myself to him.

“You are welcome, of course.” He left me there, wishing me all the best and again giving his condolences.

I handled the book for a while, turning it around in my fingers, then flipped open the cover.

It was addressed to me. I turned another page and saw a short paragraph that read:

'I imagine it did not take you much thought, after hearing the news, to know what has taken me to the unknown. I still refuse to name this vile killer that has taken so many in so many ways. Maybe I was lucky it took this long for me, or perhaps that was the curse. Maybe it was fate that I should be stricken with the very same thing that I watched my love suffer for so long all those years ago. My years after were not necessarily lonely, but your company was something I didn’t know I missed. Thank you. I will be eternally grateful for our moments together and thankful that you found some value in those same moments. I can only hope that that value remains in you, and you find it in others as I am sure they will find it in you. I lived a simple life, but was not left wanting, and spent it trying to enjoy it in ways great and small, and in the best way I could. There is not much left after the memories, that are priceless. So, as I return to the universe, I wish for you to do the same, in whatever ways you see best. Please. Live in the moments and allow them to live in you as well. Take care and thank you for your time and friendship.'

I sat for a moment, processing the rush of emotion that came with reading that. I shuffled through the pages, which were empty except for a folded slip of paper. Inside that slip was a cheque for $20,000 and three words…

“All that’s left.”