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My Book
'It's just a ratty, worn scrapbook,' he remarked as he lifted it from the shelf. 'Why are we keeping it?' I took the book he offered me, cradling it gently. 'Yes,' I thought, 'ratty, worn, and likely in danger of falling apart if it's handled even a bit roughly.' I looked at the worn home-made cover, the childish scrawl where I had written my name so many years ago. 'I should find some way to preserve this,' I said softly. 'I could barely write when I made this, had just gotten my first camera. I kept this book, adding to it for so many years.' I smiled at him and let my mind wander. 'I kept this little scrap book up for so many years. I added more pages to it so many times. This book knows so many secrets.'
We sat for a bit, looking at faded out of focus photos, taken by an excited little girl, read through the tragedies and triumphs of a young girl. 'This was where I wrote my first poems, said all the words I could never say to anyone,' I said quietly. We laughed at the fanciful hopes of a small girl, then slid into words by a young woman child and the elation and heartbreak of first love. 'I could dance on the mystical moist night air,' I had written below a corny love poem I had thought was so very clever when I had written it. Several pages later I poured out my heartbreak when he had a change of heart because it was time to leave for summer vacation. In a daffy poem I had sworn off love if it could be ended so easily. At all of twelve I thought that spring must last forevermore for I was young and loved. And it was May and that meant the end of school, which meant he had to go to his dad's for the summer. I knew I was destined to never find love again and my world was ending. We sat together going through my growing up. Then I gently placed it back on the shelf next to our elegant leather bound additions and we both went back to cleaning. We boxed up the clutter we had accumulated and when we were done and drove down to the drop off for donations.
Later that week I came home to find a gift bag waiting with a large vase of roses. The little card read, 'A new book for your life now. Happy birthday early.' In the bag was a new high end camera and a leather bound scrapbook, with boxes of extra pages. I hugged him, crying happy tears, then I hugged my new book to me and ran to the bookshelf. My elation turned to despair, my book was gone. I carefully shelved the new book and went and put the new camera away on the shelf next to my old Brownie Starmite. Then I went out to the garden and cried. I knew it was just a ratty homemade scrapbook, but it held so many memories, so much of me. Now it was gone and, somehow, I felt diminished.
The following week on my birthday I found another large vase of roses waiting for me. There was a box laying beside it, wrapped in an antique designed paper with a fluffy hand tied bow. An odd choice for my oh so modern mister. I still hurt from the loss of my book, but I knew he had tried, meant well, so I opened the paper. The box inside was from a small company in a nearby town, Heritage Restorations, that mainly did repairs and restorations for museums. Now I was confused. He wasn't the antique or museum type. I opened the box with some trepidation. Inside I found an elegant leather bound book box. A small hand written note, Happy Birthday neatly penned on hand-made paper lay on the box. I carefully unfolded the note. 'I never want to loose a single part of you, of who you are. I will always do my best to protect all of who you are.'
I set the note aside and carefully lifted the book box from its careful packing and opened it. Inside lay my scrapbook, restored, preserved, and carefully bound. 'They tried to tell me I really should just put it in a pretty box, that it really wasn't worth restoring and preserving. And they weren't sure they could save some of it, but I insisted,' he smiled. 'What makes you who I love is all in there and it's beautiful - it's priceless. I was afraid it might not hold up much longer, so I hope you don't mind I had them restore and preserve it.' I looked up into his eyes, he was waiting, anxious for my response. Tears began to stream down my face and he looked crestfallen, 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you.' 'No,' I said, 'it's perfect. I can't believe I'm so very lucky to be so loved.'
(c) Candace
