The Hemmed Page
He was only four but his little blue eye caught the worn thread and had to pull it...
It always seemed to be the invisible things he gravitated to. The details we don’t notice or care for. He loved them. The one blade of grass breaching through a crack on the side walk, the misshaped gummy bears, the heart shaped rocks that lay on the river bed. Mama always said,”one day, you’ll find something that will change the world”. His eyes would fill with hope.
It wasn’t a notable day by any means. The weather was tired and in no mood to change to abruptly. The neighborhood seemed to be somber, away. The house kept quiet, it seemed to sink in to the ground on days like these.
So this day we so effortlessly avoided the door and warped in to the walls of our little world.
I sat in my chair, the sun shun through so delicately there. He was engulfed in his play, his brightness also kept me needing nothing, wanting nothing.
I see his little hand reach to my side table, I, too blissed by the warmth of sun didn’t care for his intentions. He became withdrawn, focused on something, something I couldn’t see. I slowly gained the strength to pull myself up to glance over at his foundings.
His arm rises; his fingers clenched at the tips, as he pulls a silver thread up in to existence. He so gently holds it up, the weightless strand can’t resist dancing in the rythum of my breath as I approach.
The curiosity had us both intrigued. I felt a little jolt of excitement run through me. I joined him slowly and achingly on the floor. It caught my gaze, so gracefully. The golden trim on the cover glistened, blinding me. It was the little black book.
The frayed spine barley held on to the yellowing pages, as if they wished to be let go of their weak captor, some almost there. Almost free.
I reached for the book no longer attentive to him. I've been swept away. A single, lonesome page unraveled as the air from its lift off gave it life. I now see the remnant of tiny holes where the thread had lived it's days, imprisoned by a secret. A hemmed page.
I was not perplexed by the hemmed page itself but by the wit of the aged man that had owned the book. He always hid things, it kept him alive. He was convinced that mystery held a mans heart longer than any love or dreams.
I warily carried the page as if I were carrying my son for the first time again. I lay it on the table. The blankness stared in to me. The emptiness recognized my face, it knew me.
As I lost the hope, the thought that he had found something, I saw the pale blotch of ink at the bottom of the page, it wanted to be seen, it wanted to be given purpose again. I bent over with so much enthusiasm to read the ever so tired message. " I knew it would be you, undress my beholder".
I pondered. I waited.
Undress my beholder... with so much calm, I moved back the book. This book that had been sitting so invisibly next to me for years, with its permanent coffee cup stain, it's silence, was now my world. I just held it, sat in my sun soaked chair and placed it back, back to it's home for the last time.
The day now almost over, candles lit and curtains drawn I'm ready. I will miss you little black book. With so much care I start unraveling the book of it's tattered robes. Like a leaf in winter, no resistance to death the book gave in and let go of it's secrets.
On the floor now lay two yellow papers, old and odered. The messages, one for you and one for another. Two cheques. Each of ten thousand dollars. They had lived their days within the walls of a book and it's cover, awaiting their time, awaiting their purpose. They reach to me.
All I desire now is too see him again. To hold his hands, embrace him. The owner of the book, the book that has now steered my life away from the mundanity of the days, the underwhelming chaos of normality. I now have somewhat of a direction. To where? I have not the slightest of idea. Who shall partake of this with me.
My son. His little blue eye caught the worn thread and had to pull it. His treasure, for him to keep.