Elizabeth Hill

Grandfather’s Book

For as long as I had known my grandfather, he always had that book. The little black notebook with the soft leather cover and the black elastic band that held the whole thing shut. It wasn’t a thick book, and I often wondered as a young adult how it was not yet full, with his constant scribblings and adding to it. Perhaps he had multiple books I once pondered, but upon inspection of the book now in my hand, I recognized the same dents in the cover, the same worn upper right corner where he brushed his thumb back and forth while he was thinking. Of all the possessions my grandfather had, all the trinkets laden with memories, this was an odd gift to be left to me in his will. Everyone else had received keepsakes worth financially more, or pieces of his vast estate. My siblings would have thrown a fit, to be given this seemingly worthless book, but I wasn’t worried or bothered. He always had this on him, even on the day he passed. It was as much a part of my grandfather as his glasses or his pocket watch. And besides, he always had a reason for the things he did, even if they weren’t evident to anyone but him.