July 7, 2014 Greetings from the next chapter, The man walked in short strides to match his companion, the little girl walking next to him, tilting just a fraction so that he could hold her hand. They walked down the hallway to the library and he paused to open the door for her and bowed slightly, ushering her into the room. The sun filtered in through the slats of the blinds casting gray rectangles on the wood floor. Bits of dust traced through the light, tiny specters drifting toward a place to rest. She looked around, curious. She couldn’t really remember spending time in this room, even though the doors were always open. Today it was like it was brand new, as if it had just been created at the end of the hall while she was out playing. The desk was a simple table, a few things scattered there as if someone just stood up from writing something. A small clock ticked softly, nested between pictures. The walls were lined with library shelves, stained a deep chestnut, reaching almost to the ceiling, interrupted only by the windows looking out into the woods. Each shelf was filled with books, a myriad of color, their spines lined up in an uneven picket. Like every library, the books seem to hum in anticipation of the next reader. She absently twisted one finger through a lock of hair, one of two braids draped on her shoulders. “Ummm...” she said to herself, looking around to see what things might be interesting to girls of her age. The man sat in the desk chair and swiveled to face her, and swept a yellow book off the desk as he turned. He watched her taking in the room, turning, mouth slightly open, staring at the shelves. He absently flipped the pages of the book, bits of ribbon and papers jutting from the pages marking where he had been reading. He glanced at a page and smiled, then closed it and slid it onto the desk, precisely where it had been waiting. “What are all these… books?” she asked. “Are they yours? Did you read them all?” He smiled and waited for her to look back at him. “You could say that. I have read them all because I have written all the words in them.” The man sat in the desk chair and leaned on his knees so he could look his daughter in the eyes. He smiled at her. She looked at him, digesting what he said, trying to puzzle it out, part of her checking to see if he was teasing her. He took a deep breath. “These books are about all the people I have met. Everyone that has come into my life. It is a library of people.” She gasped. “Everyone? It’s a lot of books.” she said, “It’s so many books it makes me a little dizzy.” She held her arms out as if to steady herself as she tipped her head back to look at the highest shelves. He laughed lightly. “Some people are only a few pages. Others fill up chapters. Some people, the important ones, take many books. Volumes and volumes.” Her eyes widened. “Everyone you EVER met?” Her math skills failed her. “Well, not quite. Everyone I have come to know.” “It’s just that you are…you have been alive a long time and that would be a lot of people.” He could see her mind whirling, trying to piece together what he said with the books that surrounded them. “I have been alive a long time. But some people are just in my life for a season. Some for years and years. Some people will be in my life forever. So there are different sizes of books for each of them.” She seemed to make sense of that relaxed her face a little. “Why? Why do you write these books about the people?” “Different reasons. Mostly because they mean something to me, and I want to create a way of expressing that.” He pressed his lips together, thinking. “Sometimes when I miss someone, I can take the book out and go back and enjoy our time together. I can look at the words they said, or how they made me feel.” He leaned back in the desk chair. “It is a little like having them with me whenever I wish.” The girl smiled. She liked the sound of his voice in here. She began to feel the warmth from the shelves around them. Because she was a reader, she felt the words call to her. Her father turned in the chair and reached for a thin book bound in mahogany leather. He split the pages and placed his fingers on a page. “This is about someone I knew for a little while, a long time ago, when I was your age. Maybe you’ll see what I mean.” He drew a breath and read the words: “He swings open the screen door at Mrs. Dodges grocery, and strides in. He slams the crumpled note and the money on the counter and steps back. His arms are folded on his chest, chin tucked in and he glares at Mrs. Dodge. She stands with a broom behind the counter of the small shop, framed by shelves that extend nearly to the ceiling. Cereal boxes, bread, canned goods, jars of pickles, form a mosaic behind her. A white apron is stretched across her print dress, there is a pencil wedged in her gray hair, swept up into a bun behind her head. She reaches out to the counter, and smooths out the wrinkled note there. She tries a few conciliatory words to the boy, but he is defiant. Mrs. Dodge packs the few things on the list into a small bag, drops the change in the bottom and slides the bag across the counter. She offers the boy a sucker from the jar on the counter. He shakes his head. Sliced bread is packaged in cellophane, lined in the bottom by a thin piece of cardboard. Mrs. Dodge slides this liner out of a bag of bread and shows it to the little boy. Printed there is a cartoon rendering of a jolly King, smiling and waving. The boys countenance cracks. He smiles.” The man looked over the book at the girl. “Books sometimes are like the people in our lives.” he said, idly thumbing the pages in his hand. “Some are your favorite. You know them almost by heart. Others you read when you need a laugh, or to think deeply about things. Some are just…people you meet, maybe you don’t always know what they will mean in your life. You just keep turning the pages to find out.” He put the book back, tracing his fingers along other books, over a bright green binding, working it free from the shelf. There were dozens of bookmarks tucked in the pages. He thumbed through it, smiling, and put it on the shelf. For a moment he forgot himself until he saw his daughter staring, waiting to ask a question. He slid the book back home. He sat in the chair again and gathered her into his lap. She put her hand on his shoulder and got comfortable. “What is it you want to ask?” he said. “Are there books about my brothers?” “Yes of course.” He watched her, anticipating the next question. She turned her head and looked back at him, then looked away. “Is there a book about me?” she asked a little shyly, now studiously examining her fingertips. He laughed and she felt the vibration from his chest. “Of course. I have written about you every day of your life.” He set her down and stood up and moved to another section of shelves. She took his place in the chair and crossed her ankles, swinging her feet idly back and forth, rocking the chair gently. He opened a book. He touched his thumb to his tongue and turned a few pages. “My daughter Katherine is someone you would like to know. She is friendly and outgoing, but unless you are watching closely, you might not see what I am about to describe. She lives in the self-assured, quiet manner, of someone who may not have everything figured out, but is at ease with the process of learning. That sometimes disguises how passionate she is about her life. Katherine is compassionate and smart, and friendly and fun. And those of you who have read about her here already know, she has Steel. A strength that runs through her that carries her through challenges and setbacks and detours, to where her fullest potential lies.” She wriggled in the chair. “That’s about me?” she asked, with a nervous giggle. “It is, and it will be.” he said to her. She glanced away, her eyes roaming over the shelves again. “What are those books there?” she asked, pointing to the next shelf. He smiled, and didn’t say anything right away. He looked at her and then back at the books. He coaxed a book from the shelf. It was bound in cloth, heavily textured, heathered tones of wheat and green and bits of coral. He held the book flat between his hands. He looked at her, thinking about what he wanted to say. “In your life you will have many friends, because you are such a treasure.” he said. His daughter smiled shyly, watching his eyes, and glancing at the book he held. “Some friends will be for a time, and some for a lifetime. And one day you will meet someone whose friendship will become more than that. He will be someone you care about deeply, and who cares as deeply for you.” She shifted in the seat, curious. Her eyes, wells of ocean blue, searched him. “This book will be about that person. Someone we haven’t met yet, but who I am very much looking forward to writing about.” He smiled at her. “Because I know you, I feel like I’ll know him.” She reached out tentatively to touch the book, looked at her father, arching her eyebrows asking permission. He let her take the book and watched her turn it in her hands. She ran her hands over the cloth binding and looked at the spine, then gently eased the front cover open. She slipped her fingers under the cover page and laid it flat so she could see the first page. He watched her. Her eyes roamed over the page, and her lips shaped the word as she said it to herself. “Daddy?” “Yes?” “Who is ‘Tim’?” Hope this finds you reading again, David Copyright © 2014 David Smith
Posted on: Mon, 07 Jul 2014 12:01:21 +0000
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