The peeling skin of a hardcover, usurped my attention to the oddity of its presence,
Pristine, glossy pages of mysteries and there it was, revelling, I hope, in it’s antiquity.
I pull it out, head first and then the whole, turning from side to side, wondering where all it had been and the things it had seen.
Oliver Twist, said the italicized gilding on the leather, and on cracking open the book, I found your name.
‘An ode to your daughter’, it said, or rather you wrote. A date on the top-right corner, and the image of a demure smile and a serene yet loopy dance of pen against paper comes to shift my focus into wondering if you knew the things it would see.
I’m interested now. Interested in knowing where you went, what you thought, why page number eleven has an impossible water stain, why the crisp progression of papers sown together ends at page hundred and eleven. The dog ears on the last page, another untold story within folds. Did she close her eyes in contemplation, did your heart rise to meet her smile?
Did you? Did she?
The book drops from my hand as a little hand tugs on my skirt.
I look down to see the ne plus ultra of my existence. My mind wanders yet again for a jaunt of its own accord, taking me to places I am yet to see, a premonition of feelings I am yet to feel. Placing the hardcover back in its resting place, she continues to pull me towards what, I am yet to know. I pat on its spine, one for the memory of you and one for the memories I’ll make, and then I glance back one more time, and leave.