Cathy Howe

The Little Black Book

I held the old, tattered, small black book in my hands as I caressed its shiny oiled leather cover. It had been amongst my late mother’s things, hidden away in the corner of the dusty attic in some long-forgotten boxes. Apparently, it had been with my Grandad’s things when he had been reported as killed at the beginning of WW2 and was returned as part of his personal effects to my grandmother, and my mother had then inherited it after she had died. Now that my mother had died, I had now inherited her things.