Pages

“May I?", he said extending his hand.

She handed him the book and he flipped through the pages.

"You know, we're all kind of like books. What kind of book do you want to write?"

The book was in pristine condition, and in the corner of his eye he noticed writing on a page before it flipped close. He continued.

"So what kind of book do you want to write?"

"For others to read or for myself?"

"Both"

"...I'm not sure. I think we like to read, what we want the most. So, it should be something you love..."

Every person is a book. Each a cover with their own stories to be told. And when you find someone that is able to fill the blank pages with what you love. Then nothing else matters, sometimes nothing else compares. You just want to spend the time writing this story of life with them. Laughing, crying, playing. As ink spills onto the next pages. Putting the spilled ink on her finger, and painting it on his face, the mark of a football player. Laughing, having fun. Not worried about making a mess or getting to the end. Having fun and not wanting it to end, even if it may as well will one day.

‘Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.’ (Anais Nin)

…

It was the final copy. A letter written at the end. In preparation to the day that together they ran away. The day of elopement, focused primarily on just them, to strip the pressure, the anxiety, and the obligation about having a traditional ceremony. Promising to do it all one day, the longer they were together, again and again, until a grand finale with hundreds of people- families, friends, neighbors- ones that they loved and ones who loved them, the longer they were together. The writing her father had written was on the last page, words written for her mother, choosing the last page instead of the traditional first page intentionally. There was always an intention.

It was the day of their honeymoon. And as the two of them laid together in each other’s arms that morning, holding her close, he kissed her, gently laying together by the glass waterfront view, by the sound of the woods, the lake, the birds. Their wedding gift, purchased together, saving up, their new home. He left to make breakfast, that’s when the book came into the picture, left on the tabletop, wrapped in ribbon. A bouquet + card placed on top.

She sat on the bed, opening the book, curious to see despite thinking she knew. Opening the note on the card, scents reminiscent of what she loved, flowers, and what he loved, rain. Opening the sealed envelope with wax, an embroidery of floral. He wanted her to read the book one more time, saving his message on the last page until the very end. Because the book was just the beginning, the book were the ideas, and the invitation to each and every one of those ideas, was the gift. The second book when they were committed to each other, marrying, was his request for her, to write the other side of the book, her side. One more explicit and erotic, he suggested laughing, if the willingness was there to explore. Those were the only two books, he ever wrote/ co-wrote.

“Don't rush, my love”, he said. “Sometimes the best parts of life is in the wait. You have to save the best for last.”

For life isn’t the amount of breaths that we have taken, but the moments that capture those breaths away…

He was writing out the future, dreams and ideas, with the hope of her collaboration. So she had a hint of what was to come. Even if it was just a fantasy, there were pieces of it that he brought to life. The way she would be courted, the way life can be lived, a philosophy and philanthropy beyond. In the end striving for purpose, a search for the beauty to life, in whatever creative aspect that was currently present.

A frame sat in their young daughter’s room, a beautiful portrait. The breeze from the moonlit night blowing the curtains of the window, as she snuggles cozily to sleep.

…My love, I know that wherever you are, it'll probably bring a smile to your face.