Bound

In between my brother and I were boxes that we set down on the floor. It was all spread out in our tiny apartment and we couldn’t figure out which we would open first. The twenty thousand dollars was a surprise enough, but we wondered what the boxes had in store for us. Was it there? Did he leave it for us to find or did he take it with him? Would be it lost forever?

My father wasn’t much educated. He grew up in a place no one knew, and in a town you couldn’t even pronounce the name of. His father was a farmer and so was his father’s father, and farming was all he knew. Though we weren’t all that rich, we could go by with what we had. We lived on top of a small hill, and after school as the sun would set casting golden warm rays on everything it could touch, my brother and I played outside chasing each other while momma brought in the clothes she had hung up to dry for the day. Before coming in the house momma would breathe in the remains of the day and she would thank it. Dad would come home later in the evenings. He usually rode home with our neighbor as we didn’t have a car to ourselves — but all this was enough for them, even for momma, who worked part time at the grocery. Dad would walk up to her and they’d look at each other seemingly content. I remember. They loved each other and loved us as well. Momma said she didn’t love anyone else more than my brother and I. I’ll always remember that.

It was two months after my twelfth birthday when it happened. She looked as she always did. Peaceful. Full of life and love. Even in death she seemed like a living entity of grace. Father knew he wouldn’t find another one like her, and he didn’t want to. When she passed my father barely spoke and he barely smiled. My brother, of course, didn’t understand what death was and what it meant. He still asked for momma at nights when he needed comfort and I had to sooth him to sleep.

Momma used to get her hands on whatever books she could find— even the bad ones. She would share with me these stories and found a way to make even the most boring of stories seem full of life. Dad couldn’t read that well. He always wondered why she chose him, later on. At times wasn’t ashamed of himself and his background. But, he was at least proud to be able to provide enough for his family. She too was proud of that fact. At home there was a little room we used as a closet. My father had converted it into a little study for my mother where she could read her books and take time for herself. She filled it with her favorite books. There she would read sitting on an old chair that belonged to her mother and a previously discarded wooden table found out on the road.

One day my father quietly emerged from momma’s study, and in his hand clutched close to his chest was a little black book that I’d never seen before. He muttered a no, paused, and went back into the room. Father stopped reading to us from then on. As soon as he got home he would retreat back into momma’s study with his dinner and a pot of coffee, and he would read until he could barely keep himself awake anymore.

My brother asked me why father was quiet again. He missed and so did I. Father was at the farm and wouldn’t be back until later. The study was still, as if it had never seen life within its four walls, and I could hear myself breathing. I looked over at the desk and it stood empty aside from an old lamp and a pen. The books on the shelf were not as organized as momma liked to keep them. I look through through them. I looked through the books one by one, being careful not to miss anything. I started checking every obvious space, every nook and cranny, and in places I thought where little black book could be hidden . I searched until I grew exhausted and tears rolled down my face.

If I had asked about the little black book, what would my father say? Would he have said that truth? Or would he have made an excuse and lie about? Lie like how he did with my brother when he asked about momma. My father told him that she passed in her sleep, that the angels needed another angel up in heaven and she was the kindest and most gentle person they knew. But I knew that wasn’t the case. I knew it was an accident. One day I’d have to tell my brother.

As I lay in bed, I was awoken by a sound. I felt a sudden shiver down my spine. At first I thought It was the wind but it would come and go. Was it a spirit haunting our home? The sound formed into a cry. A cry I have that I had never heard before. My feet grew cold and night after night I would hear this phantom from outside our room. I became restless and haunted by this. One night, I was awoken once more by the sound. I slowly opened my eyes and crawled quietly out of bed making sure not to wake my brother. I had to make a decision. I had to see what it was and stop it, even if it scared me. I took my steps lightly as I made my way out the room and down the corridor, careful not to wake father. I could see the glowing warm light of the study through the halfway open door. It seemed to be the source of the sound. I crept towards it, not knowing what I was about to face. A laugh stopped me in my tracks. A page flips. That was the familiar sound. The little black book. My father sitting down with the little black book in hand. His cries was the spirit that would give me restless nights.

I had never heard a man cry before. At the funeral, father didn’t shed a tear. Though I knew deep inside his heart was broken, he never shed a tear about it. I didn’t know what to think, it felt so new to me. The little black book has been making my father cry. He turns to another page and his cries turn into laughter and a smile I also have not seen. I didn't understand what he was going through. I didn't understand how such a thing could make a man like father feel the way he did so chose to leave him alone with the little black book. I went back to the room and find my brother sitting up on his bed half asleep. He asked me if it was momma. I told him that it was just to comfort him. He asked if he could see her. I shake my head and tell him she had already left but maybe one day when he’s older he could see her again, but for now he had to rest. He listens and I tuck him in before I make my way back into my own bed. My brother whispers asking if I was sure that it was momma, I reassured him that it was and that she’d look after him. He fell fast asleep, as did I. Years later my father got a job near town and we had all left the house. My brother was an athlete at school, excelling in whatever he pursued while I considered scholarships and going off to college. Though I was afraid to leave my father, I knew he could take care of himself and my little brother would be there to keep him company anyway. 


So, I left home to pursue my studies. It had a good first semester and was looking forward to the next one. It had been two years since I’d been home. I was in the middle of class when I got the call from my brother. I came home as soon as I could. He told me that father left us in his sleep. Even though I felt a heavy sadness that he was no longer with us, it was comforting to know that and momma were together again. Father left the sum for twenty thousand dollars for each of us and that was enough for us. Money aside, he left behind a box of things that seemingly made up their lives. He had his old work clothes from his days at the farm, underneath it were mommas books. I tried to calm myself remembering the little black book and how I never got to read what was in it, but it wasn’t there. I was ready to resign to the fact that maybe it’s just gone. My brother reached in and opens up a smaller box that revealed some precious belongings. In it were photos of my father in his childhood, photos with his friends and family. There was a necklace that momma used to wear along with their wedding photos and their written vows. Then he picks it up. At the bottom of the box, he takes out a little black book, curiosity etched on his face. He opens it up and starts reading aloud. My feet got cold like it did those nights I heard my father cry. He reads for a bit and stops. He looks at me and hands me the book. He says that father left a note for me.

After Christmas I said goodbye to my brother and went back to campus. I arrived at the dorms late at night. Tired from the trip I tried to sleep but I couldn’t. My father’s passing still lingered in my head. I looked over at my unpacked back and remembered the little black book sat there waiting for me. I stared at it as it lay on my little desk in my little room. After some time I finally open its contents. Written on the page was my mother’s name and her birthday. I turned the page and see my and my brother’s name. She writes about having us and having the family she had dreamt. She writes how perfect her two little boys are and how loving her husband was. She gushes about how much she adored our house, even though it was small and old, and how our family made it into a home. She details how my little brother loved her stories and how I was growing up faster than she ever thought I could. It made her sad to think about it but she couldn’t wait to see the man her two boys would become. She mentions how she couldn’t wait to grow old with father and spend the rest of their lifetime together.

The little black book was a dedication to us. It was a recording of her life. She writes about her childhood and growing up in her home. She composes sentences, carefully, about meeting my father and their first years together. There, too, written was the story of the pain she endured giving birth to my brother and I. She wrote about the pains of living and the healing that light and nature provided.

I heard my mothers voice through every word she wrote and when I laughed it was my fathers laugh I heard. I wept as I struggled through my realizations. This little black book has now given me peace. The kind of peace my brother needed too. It took me back to that night years ago when my brother asked me if the ghost in our house was my mother. I lied to him to hime to keep him comfort. Now, reading this and knowing what I know, it all came from her. I didn’t know it back then, but I was actually, in a way, telling the truth.

End