His Small Black Book

It was just a small black leather bound book but it fascinated her. The cover was soft and worn from years of handling, no longer stiff and shiny but certainly not a floppy book. The blackness was faded to a black-gray dullness that spoke of years of use. His hand had opened and closed it so many times, his handprint, though not visible, was apparent. She ran her hand over it; her eyes closed, and imagined her small hand in his. She paused, feeling the energy of him pulsing from the book to her hand and into her heart. She cried softly, knowing she would never hold his hand again. Knowing she would never feel his gentle caress on her face again.

She was in his office, clearing through his things. His many, many years of collection of things. Most meaningless to her; most meaningless to anyone and unable to bring a good price. She needed to clean out the house so it could be sold. She needed to sell as many of the meaningless things, since she never achieved the level of prosperous endeavors as he had hoped for her.

Certainly, she wasn’t penniless but her life was lived on the edge of comfort and poverty. She had a nice house and a nice life but, ruin was always a short distance in thought. She bounced about in her career, if it could be called that, and held jobs that paid well but sometimes there were small gaps and sometimes cavernous divides between assignments and contracts.

She traveled a lot for years, and ended up living here and there, as opportunity presented itself. She hadn’t been back to see him for many years but she always reached out by phone or mail, more recently across the digital divide; the internet. He was always happy to hear from her. He missed her but understood her heart had the wanderlust of her mother, and her career always called her to the road on yet another journey.

He knew she tried to follow her mother, for the sake of following, not because she had the passion in her heart. His heart broke watching her try to be something she wasn’t and knew she never would be. His heart broke watching her live in a shadow that was so dark and overbearing that she could never find her way to the light. But, he loved her for trying. He loved her for loving the woman he loved, the woman he had chosen as his lifemate. It was the bond they shared, living in the shadow but content to be together. Content knowing they were loved by the woman that cast the shadow with her oversized personality and large, exciting career.

She cried again, softly, knowing that even when the shadow passed and it was just the two of them, the bond between them remained strong, unwavering. This is why she always called, always wrote, always reached out. And he, for his part, was always elated to hear even the smallest, trivial aspect of her life. When she hadn’t been able to reach him for days she started to panic. Not so much that she was worried for him, knowing he was old and frail and ready to move on. But panicked that their bond would be shattered and she would be alone. And, it was that day.

She slowly opened the cover of the small black book to peer into the writings of his hand, the thoughts of his mind. She hoped to find something to carry with her forever, that would bring her back to the time when her tiny hand was in his. A time when his happy voice lifted her whenever she fell. When knowing his presence in the world helped her to continue on what seemed a broken path.

The pages were as worn as the cover. Soft with curled edges revealed once the weight of the cover was lifted. Also like the cover, the brightness of the pages had faded. More of an ivory now, with edges browned and yellowed with the hint of his fingers having flipped each page, time and again. Because the book was small she didn’t expect much. How many of his thoughts could be captured in this small book? He had been old when he passed so suddenly. Certainly, a lifetime of thoughts couldn’t be held within the boundaries of this small black book. But yet, it seemed important to him as the worn cover and pages expressed his continual and long interaction with the precious thing.

As she slowly turned page upon page, it appeared to be just words and numbers but not true writing. What were these to mean? What did they mean to him and how could she decipher them to find meaning for herself? Page by page, words and numbers. Page by page, she became more confused. This precious thing, his hands and fingers caressed so often and yet it didn’t reveal anything to her.

Out of time, she put the small black book in the box of things she wanted to keep, out of the way of the auctioneers, who were helping her look for some value in the multitude of things. Finally finished, she left them to their task and took the box filled with the last of the precious things to remember him by.

Weeks later, in the sanctity of her home she opened the box. Immediately she could feel his presence as the fragrance of the things inside filled the air around her. The fragrance of him, a scent she remembered well. A scent that filled her with the wonderful memories of growing up loved completely and wholly by another. As she took out each of the things and put them in prominent places throughout her home, she ended up with only the small black book in her hand. Again, she held it between her own hands imagining his hand being close to hers. She opened it, once again confused by the words and numbers with no meaning for her.

Over the next weeks, she occasionally sat with the small black book, flipping through the pages. Reading the numbers, looking for consistency or similarity. Reading the words, looking for clues. Always closing it and putting it on the table, not wanting it out of her sight but not knowing what it all meant.

One day, several months later, as the sun of Spring filled her with hope of the future, she opened the small black book again. She had become accustomed to stroking it, as if it were his hand. She had become accustomed to flipping through the worn pages, trying to understand what was in his mind when he wrote these words and numbers. On a whim, she flipped the pages along the edge and stopped wherever her fingers landed. A set of words and numbers, but nothing more.

She closed the small black book and put it into her pocket. Then she readied herself to go to the convenience store to pick up a few things she needed. Though she knew the prices were higher at the small store, it felt more like home. She knew the aisles, the order of things on the shelves, the well worn floor, and the old, worn owner that always had a smile for her.

As she walked the aisles, just as she had so many times before, she kept her hand in her pocket on the small black book, imaging holding his hand. She felt he was here with her. His old, worn hand in hers walking about the old, worn convenience store. She gathered her few items and as the old man behind the counter rang her things up, smiling at her and chatting as they always did, she spotted an advertisement for the lottery and was drawn to enter.

She had never played such frivolous games but the pull was strong, relentless and she asked for a form to fill out. The old man chided her since she had never purchased one before, but the conviction was in her. As she stared at the form, her hand on the small black book, she had an overwhelming rush of clarity. She pulled the small black book from her pocket and found her way through the worn cover, through the worn pages to the page she had opened just before coming here. On the page was just the right number of numbers, which she wrote on the form.

She handed the worn old man, in the worn old store the form with the numbers from the worn old book, and received her ticket. She smiled at the owner and thanked him. With him and his old, worn, small black book on her mind, she went home to watch the outcome of the lottery on the television.