It’s been, a wonderful and chaotic, day; shopping bags litter the bedroom floor. The bed is unmade, I left in a hurry this morning. The closet doors stand open, spewing brightly, coloured clothing. There is no room for my boyfriend’s clothes anymore. I do wonder how he feels about that. Note to self; ask him. Two tea mugs, half full, , cold and overly-steeped, are perched precariously on the edge of the night table. An overstuffed, red, velvet chair sits empty; the only thing in the room that is. I use it for reading, when I can’t sleep. On occasion, I have woken up with drool running down my face, and a crook in my back, that takes more than a few hours to loosen it’s grip. At least I slept. A pile of books, old and new, sit on the floor to the right of the chair. One of my bags is full of used books, new to me, that I will add to the pile.
I spent an hour in the coffee shop, inhaling the words, of a new favourite book. I have many favourites. Reading fills nearly all my extra time. My great Uncle Wallin, spent lots of time at our house, when I was little. He would read, story after story to me. His love for books and reading, impacted my life, filled it with wonder, left a longing in me to know more. I remember how he loved to re-read a book, as many times as needed, to be sure I was satisfied. There was a book mark, jewelled in tiny bright colours, strung with gold threads. Uncle Wallin wrote some words on the back of it, before leaving it on a shelf in my room. Now, if it’s not in a book, I carry it with me, a little piece of his love, his crooked smile, his belly laugh, and the sound of his voice.
I should put it in one of the new books, ready for reading. I search through the finished book, the bag of books, then all the other bags, coming up empty. The contents of my purse are dumped on the floor, a lipstick rolling under the bed. The receipts, crumpled or folded, cover the rest. I push them aside, as I feel my heart beat a little faster. It’s time to panic. The process is repeated, this time lifting all the checked bags off the floor, and depositing them on the bed. Nothing. Was it the coffee shop? Was it one of the ten shops I was in today? There was no time to retrace my steps, but, I could call the coffee shop. I described with detail, the bookmark, and it’s meaning to me, hoping the girl that was listening on the other end, was paying attention. What? She was looking at it right now? The tears let loose, running down my cheeks, and leaving wet drops on my t-shirt. Someone had turned in the ratty, old, bookmark. I’m not sure if I would have done the same, wondering how something like that could be important. I’ve never thought about it in that sense before. Lesson learned.
When I stopped in to pick it up, I gratefully thanked the girl who looked after it for me, for saving a memory from an unknown fate. She listened, surprisingly intently, to my story of the bookmark. Maybe she had a similar story, the reason for keeping it safe.
As always, comments are welcomed and encouraged.