Wrapped in Twine

The bookstore was dingy; smelled of moldy pages and rotting books. The farther back into the store she walked felt more and more devoid of any natural light as the crippled shelves loomed over her.

This is how she spent her lunch breaks, inside Boman's Bookcellar, and this Friday afternoon was no different, shuffling through half-carpeted aisles while her fingers tickled the spines of bound stories. It didn't matter what section she browsed today, it wasn't like she could afford to buy anything. She was a window shopper in a bookstore with no windows.

As always though, her steps took her to the smallest section of the store: philosophy and antiques. Such an overwhelming pulse these few shelves held. Meaning and hope, the passage of time, possibilities and the actuality of life. How many hands had caressed these pages? How many eyes flitted back and forth across the words? How many lives were changed by the art held within?

Sigh. Maybe one day. One day she will buy whatever books she wants.

She perused the shelves with a half-smile, blowing the dust from the tops of the unattended books. It was then she noticed a little black book tucked neatly away between a tome on Stoicism and a grand love story filled with hedonistic tendencies; two polar opposites side by side...save for the tiny interloper.

She slid her finger over its top and plucked the meager book from its hiding spot. Turning it over in her hands, there were no distinguishing marks except an impressed stamp on the back, faded and unremarkable. A tiny elastic strap held the miniature leather volume closed and she slid it back with a popping sound.

Nothing. Blank, empty. Not a book, no author. Flipping through all the pages, there wasn't a mark on a single sheet. There was no tag for a price. The instinct to slide the book into her purse was strong but she shook it off.

She walked up to the counter and set it down. The grizzled old man seated on the uncomfortable looking stool glanced up from his newspaper.

"What's that?" he asked.

"A journal I think," she replied. "It doesn't have a price tag so I'd like to know how much you'll sell it for."

He leaned forward and picked up the small book, turning it over several times in his fingers before plopping it back down on the counter. "You could have just walked out with it, I don't recognize it."

She smiled slightly, her face flushing gently with a blush. "I didn't consider it," was her reply.

He snorted, noticing her pinkening skin. "Uh, huh. An honest one are you? Okay, since you didn't steal it, I'll let you set the price."

Her blush turned to panic as she realized that she only had a few dollars in her pocket. It was either this tiny journal or lunch.

"I have three dollars, sir."

"That's too much, I'll take one and you can save the rest for your lunch." He stuck out a worn palm. "Don't ask me how I know; you're in here enough for me to guess. One dollar please."

Her smile was deep and she blinked a couple times as she reached in for a single dollar bill. "Thank you sir, that's terribly sweet of you," she said, handing him the money.

He waved her off. "Whatcha gonna do with it? Draw pictures?"

She shook her head. "No sir, not an artist, just a book lover. Have a couple of ideas for some stories that I never put to paper, might start with this."

"Oh yeah? Well, sometimes those are the best ideas, sharing your stories with the rest of us. Make sure you take care of that book. What's your name?"

"Morana. But people just call me Mori."

"That's an odd name."

"My mother said it means sorrow. She wasn't happy to have a baby girl and she reminded me often. You're the Mr. Boman on the door?" she asked.

His chest puffed slightly. "The one and only Conrad Boman."

"Nice to officially meet you Mr. Boman. Goodbye and thanks for the journal."

He snorted one more time and pointed a crooked finger in her direction. "You make sure you fill it with happiness Morana, all your happiness."

Smiling sweetly at him, she stuffed the journal into her bag and hurried out of the bookstore to get back to work.

The rest of the work day passed slowly, as it always did. She could feel the palpable summoning of the tiny journal from her bag, distracting her with stories to fill the small book, poems unwritten, dreams left unrecorded.

Tick, tick, tick of the office clock. Her supervisor walked by her desk a dozen times, his eyes narrowing; he could tell.

She counted her breaths and heard her heartbeat in her ears. This was the first time in many years she felt encouraged and she couldn't wait to spill out all of her stored words into the journal. The most exciting part of it was the anticipation of sharing her literary prowess with the gruff and grumpy Mr. Boman.

The work clock buzzed its death knell for the work week and she shot up out of her seat. Her steps were bold, determined as she raced home. The faded facade of her apartment complex loomed, she could smell the fresh linens of the clotheslines as they flapped their wares in the slight breeze.

She ran up the three flights of stairs to her apartment, key ready, kicked her shoes off towards the bathroom and shrugged off the heavy sweater. She grabbed the journal from her bag and scrounged around to find a pen. What did Mr. Boman tell her to do? Share her happiness? She had not lived with much happiness but today she felt it in her skin, warm and rushing towards her fingertips that itched with an unbridled thrill.

She planted herself firmly in the middle of her couch and tucked her legs underneath. Opening the book, she wrote on the blank first page: My Happiness.

What happened over the next two days was a blur of cramping hands, cold toes, overfilled bladder and itchy eyes. The words surged forth onto the pages, filling them to the brim with poems that showed she could change the world and stories that one day she would tell her children and her grandchildren, dozens that would make them laugh and hug her neck.

"My life will be so much more than just is what in these pages, but I have to fill them in to see what I am worthy of," she whispered to herself as she finally passed off into sleep at almost midnight on Sunday.

She didn't remember waking, showering, or even walking to work but suddenly she was there on Monday morning staring into the eyes of her supervisor over a huge mug of coffee moments before the noon buzzer shrieked. Suddenly she was alert and the day was miraculously bright.

She had to get to Boman's, show him what happiness she'd found. She was out the door like a rocket, the journal tucked lovingly against her chest. Rounding the corner to scurry down to the basement bookstore, she stopped abruptly at the threshold, a cold breeze washed over her.

There was a man standing just inside, hip up against the glass counter, his chin cupped in the palm of his hand as he stared at the empty stool by the register. He heard her sharp intake of breath and he looked over at her instantly. His familiar eyes held too much sadness and the hand holding the journal shook as she felt her chest laboring to breathe.

"We're closed," he said quickly, but with no malice.

"Please tell me he's okay," she replied with a shaking voice.

"No, he's not," came the sad reply. "My father was found early this morning collapsed on the floor, his heart gave out last night while he was here alone."

She could not stop the big tears washing down her face.

"Did you know him?" he asked.

"Yes, I came in almost every day during my lunch break to daydream about all the books I was going to own one day," she said between tiny sobs.

"So you're Morana." A small smile creases his bearded cheeks.

"I am. He's mentioned me?"

"He talked about this girl that comes in and buys nothing but has a soft, pale, happy light about her when she stares at the books. It seems he was in here making this." The man pulled up a package swaddled in butcher paper and wrapped in twine.

"For you," he said.

She was frozen and hesitated, afraid that if she reached out, it would make the loss of Mr. Boman too real for her suffering heart.

"Please, take it. Dad would want you to have it."

She stepped forward, thick with sadness as she took the gift and smiled weakly. "Thank you. I'm so sorry for your loss," she told the man with the eyes of the gruff and grumpy Mr. Boman. She saw the pain in them as she backed out of the shop and turned up the staircase.

She went straight home, only taking a moment to call her supervisor to say that a dear friend passed away unexpectedly and she wouldn’t be returning to work. He showed no sympathy, and stated that she'd better be back to work in the morning or else. She mumbled a quiet "yes, sir" and hung up the phone.

She wasn’t sure how she made it to her apartment but suddenly she was there, head resting against the solid door, the only thing holding her up right now. Her key slowly turned and she pulled all her sadness inside with her.

The couch was still a mess of spent pens and blankets, candy wrappers and crumbs, remnants of the weekend spent in scripted bliss. Pushing it aside, she sat and cradled the package on her wobbly knees, removed the twine and read the note.

"Morana, there is great happiness in you, no matter what your mother said. There are so many words that you need to share with the world and I hope this little gift helps. See you again soon, Conrad Boman."

The words wrenched her heart as more tears flooded down her cheeks, her breath coming in raspy gulps while she stripped away the butcher paper.

Three old, antique books sat stacked perfectly on top of each other. Books that she always admired and longed to touch were now hers. She pulled back the cover of the first book and saw a note in the same Boman handwriting that said "Thank you for not stealing from me". Snorting a laugh, she peeled back the title page and there it was. A crisp $100 bill. Her jaw dropped.

Another page turned, another bill, another page, another bill. Tucked between each page, they started to shower her lap as she flipped page after page in book after book.

She sat there for hours among the spilled out bills and blinked with how many she had counted. 200 of them. There were 200 $100 bills haphazardly decorating her ugly, worn coffee table. That's $20,000 sitting there. But why?

She picked up the note and read it again. He wanted her to share her happiness with the world.

"I will Mr. Boman, I promise I will."

She gathered up the bills and took two, stuffing them in her pocket, and tossing the rest in a worn shoe box hidden under the bathroom sink. Her first stop: buying a bunch of little black books to hide in other book stores around town. Only this time she wrote in the front page of all:

"This may only be used to share your happiness with the world."