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Where It Begins

A rose blooms not from the soil in which it was planted, but from the light it sees.

By Alyssa BenedettoPublished 3 years ago 10 min read
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With both hands clutched tightly to the wheel she drove the winding road to town, past the places she used to spend her days in a time before the world was forced to take a collective breath and sigh. She could smell the jasmine flowers along the park fence as she pulled into the parking lot. She grabbed her backpack from the passenger seat and with a push of her foot the door slammed shut, igniting a stream of tears.

She was never one to keep anything inside, yet there was something about the quiet of the park that cooled the knot in her stomach, allowing its release through pools that welled up in her eyes. She placed her backpack on the ground and knelt beside it. She could see the corner of an ivory envelope peering out: “Lyla” it said on the top, in black sharpie marker as stark in its line as it was dark.

Lyla felt around in her backpack, rummaging through a few notebooks; some dusty from her travels, some strewn with ink whose covers became pages, and one which had never been touched. This notebook was small and black - its pages lined in gold, its cover adorned with a superhero who wore a cape.

“I found this for you Sweetie. It was on sale at the bookstore, perhaps it could be of some use to you?” Her grandfather’s words whispered in her ear. She brushed the dust off the notebook’s spine, and moved her pencil across its pages; the eraser going from sheet to sky, and sky to sheet again, keeping with the pace of her mind. Suddenly she stopped, looking again towards her backpack, and thought of the envelope within. It contained a check from her grandfather - an incredibly proud and loving family man, Air Force veteran, and community organizer who’d lost his life to an illness that was sweeping through families across the nation.

“$20,000” she said in her head slowly, trying to comprehend the value of that beyond its monetary worth. She gulped back the tears which threatened to fall from her eyes. Her grandfather had built an empire on his ability to give, garnered through his years of service to his alma mater, his country, and his community. His kindness extended from those he loved and cherished, to those he did not know just the same.

Every Christmas he gave each of his eight grandchildren a check in the amount of the new year. Lyla remembered opening hers last December - it was for $2,020. This would be last year he’d be able to share it with them. Her grandfather was always thinking in advance; she knew this year’s check was his way of still sharing his gift for all the years he knew he’d miss. He always had a way of knowing. She wondered if this time he had known, too.

* * *

Lyla was also never one to save. The concept of money never made sense to her as something that could lead her life direction forwards, or backwards for that matter. For her, money was merely an exchange of energy with which to share and create value. Not value in the monetary sense that dominated modern thought, but value in the true sense of worth that comes from putting energy towards the things that work to create a world you believe in. Lyla needed a reminder to differentiate between the two. She paused for a moment before she scribbled down into her notebook: “Can you take it with you?”

“That will do perfectly,” she smiled and thought, “yes, that will do.”

She sat up slowly, slung her backpack over her shoulder, and headed into town.

* * *

Town for her consisted of one main road, many of whose once familiar shops were now boarded closed. The countdown of the crosswalk sign calmed her as she made her way across the street towards Al’s corner.

“Hello Sweetheart!” he’d say to Lyla as she passed each day.

“Hello Al. Beautiful day today isn’t it?”

“It is indeed my dear. Oh! Look what I found at the gas station down the street!” Al had a small table set up in front of him that was less a sales booth and more a showcase. It consisted mostly of old baseball tie clips and odd coins, each with their own story. He reminded Lyla of her grandfather. His innovativeness, and endless love for sharing it, flowed through both their veins just the same.

He picked up a small clip engraved with a “T”, encircled in red and blue.

“Oh, another tie clip!” Lyla said. Al stared at her.

“Not just any tie clip - a Texas Rangers tie clip! It’s rare to find anything outside of the northern states up here, what a beaut!” He held it up to the light of the sun, like a rare gem whose clarity warranted a closer view.

“Of course Al, how lucky for you!”

“Luck has nothing to do with it Sister, I’m just good at staring at the ground. Sometimes it brings me depression, other times it brings me treasures.” He winked at her and placed the clip down on the table. “Now I just need me one from good ol’ New York, and I’ll have all the bases covered.”

Al spoke of a time when he worked the docks of New York City, sowing the seeds of stories and finding tossed treasures beneath his feet. It was a life before he joined the Army at the behest of his father.

“Stop wandering through life and follow a real dream!” His voice echoed through Al’s ears. But even on his Army base, Al would tell his tales of ships and southern skies that spoke to him in whispers of a dream. Lyla never knew what was a tale and what was true, but it didn’t seem to matter much to either of them; they both enjoyed the stories just the same.

Al was in his late seventies and clean-cut for a man who spent most of his days on the streets. He had no relatives of his own in town, but many friends who offered him places to sleep. His answer was always the same; he just wanted to share his sleep with the sky.

Mrs. Z was the owner of the local coffee shop. It was an older building from a time when owners lived in their spaces, its restroom complete with a shower that she’d let Al use early each morning. As customers arrived, he would slowly move over to the computer found in one corner of the room, a reminder of the days of internet cafes gone by.

One morning, Mrs. Z noticed Al hurrying over to the computer closer to opening than usual. He knew there were capacity restrictions now in place in her shop due to the illness that would shorten his time available time to stay there, so it must have been something important he had to complete before her customers arrived.

“What’s the hurry today Al?” she asked as he hastily moved the chair out from under its stand.

“Well, I saw a commercial on the gas station TV about a website that can find your relatives, and turns out I’ve got a cousin in California! He set me up with one of those “g-mails” and I’m expecting a message from him today. Can’t tell you what about though, very important business.” He winked at her, a genuine smile gleaming from his eye.

“Well don't let me stop you!” she said with a grin as she parted the window curtains and let the light stream in.

* * *

“Lyla! I got a real story for you today!”

“I thought they were all real?” she said wryly.

“Well yes, they were all real then, but this is real right now!” Al said with a laugh. “It turns out I got a cousin in uh, the south of San Francisco I think he called it, and he said they got a lot of resources for, you know, the smart types with nowhere to go - like me!” he said proudly.

“He said they’ve got these newspapers I can sell that over time bring in a pretty penny, ‘street sheets’ they call ‘em, and he knows of a program where I can live in a place with these tiny houses - and within a few years, I could have enough to rent out a small storefront on the outskirts of town! Thinking of setting up a coffee shop of my own like Mrs. Z, ‘cept instead of coffee we sell stories. But you see, we sell ‘em for free!” Al spoke quickly as Lyla tried to follow.

“Okay, okay, slow down Al! That’s great! But how will you keep it running if you sell stories for free?”

“Well, the way I see it, we’re not really selling stories, we’re sharing them. And people can come in with their collections, like my tie pins, and set them up to share too. Anyone interested in hearing something to inspire can drop some money at the door and walk in. Kinda like my days on the docks - people tossed you coins if they could. I think there oughta be more spaces where people can toss coins, ya know?”

And she did. She felt the same.

“You see, these things are not just things, they’re stories, and us people, we’re not just people - we’re stories! And dreams! That’s what I want to help people see, Lyla. That’s what I want to help people see.”

“You’re a good man Al, I hope you succeed!”

“Well, I’ve got a bus ticket tomorrow to send myself off to the southern San Francisco sky, so we shall see.” He grinned from ear to ear.

“Don’t you even think about leaving without saying goodbye now!”

“Oh I won’t” he laughed. “9:30am. See you then?”

“See you then!” Lyla smiled as she turned to walk towards home.

* * *

The next morning, Lyla walked down the street as a bus passed her by. Looking down at her watch, she realized it was off by five minutes and began to run.

“Al!” she yelled, “Al!!”

“Oh hello sweetheart, glad you could make it!” He said calmly as he reached out for the handrail of the bus. Though his face was now adorned with a blue mask, she knew underneath it lay a grin.

“Write to me, will ya?” she said as she handed him her little black notebook.

“Oh! I will!” He gave her one final nod and stepped up onto the platform. Once seated, he pulled the notebook from his pocket, and opened it. Inside the cover just one line was written: “Can you take it with you?”

“Why yes, yes I can.” He chuckled to himself and clutched the notebook, noticing it didn’t lay flat. He quickly flipped past its pages to the back, where he discovered a small folder-like pocket. Inside was a crisp stack of $100 bills folded in half, held together by an old New York Mets tie pin and a note: “For your stories - may they never be just a dream.”

As a a tear hit the ink scrawled before him, Al felt what could only be described as confidence in his heart. He closed the notebook and looked at the superhero on its little black cover. It was then he remembered the truth about every story - where one ends depends fully on where one begins, and this time he would begin knowing the worth of his own dreams.

Lyla walked down the road to the bookstore window, wherein lay a medium-sized red notebook - a “Two-Go” with pages both lined and blank. She decided now was as good a time as any to write outside the lines, for within any space there was room to envision your dreams. As she took a step forward to walk inside, she reached into her pocket, pulled on her mask, and breathed.

* * *

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About the Creator

Alyssa Benedetto

What started as a life saving tactic has now evolved into the main way I interface and create within the world. Growing from a simple documentation of the world around us, it has now become an avenue for my interpretation of the world.

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