Maggie M.

The indentation of her name still remained visible on the faded covers of the three black notebooks that were laid out before me on my desk. My fingertips glided over the worn covers feeling the memories of eighty-four years of wisdom and love rising up through its curled corners and wrinkled pages. Besides an innate sense of warmth and security that still resides within me this is all I have left of her.

Three little back notebooks.

Red swirls and loops filled the pages with memories of dreams, hopeful goals, and recipes guaranteed to make you grin with delight. She refused to write in any other color. It had to be red. It had to be bold. It had to be her way. She wrote of sunny vacations adventuring on road trips in a car that deserved a few more visits to the mechanic than it had been afforded. She scribbled small poems about foggy mornings strolling through mists in an over-sized yellow sweater whose loose string always guided her back home through the maze of trees and fog. Letters unsent to a lover who never returned home from the war were tucked in between pages used to press flowers.

Reading through these notebooks I reminded of a woman who knew she could change the world. Not in a grandiose sense but with whomever she encountered by believing in herself and living authentically and treating them with a kindness only those who have been denied it can give. The summation of these three little notebooks were a loose set of rules to life. Live boldly, live happily, and eat well. Always eat well. I admit my cooking is edible, or at least, that is how my daughter describes it, but I still try.

When her memories started to fade I would sit with her and read her passages back to her hoping to connect her back to her youth, back to a time free from sickness, doubt, and fear. Sometimes it brought tears and laughs or quiet nods during her less lucid moments. I think it helped. I know it did.

I have had these notebooks in my possession for a number of years now. They have been a silent mentor and welcoming guide for me during the harder years. The years where I did not believe in myself, the years where I thought it was hopeless. They reminded me of her love for life and her love for me and I would have never guessed that pages with red ink would be able to save me from that internal mire. They helped inspire me to keep following my dreams, to pursue the kind of life I want to live.

I have read them many times over at this point I did not think I could be surprised coming back to them. The homemade laminated bookmark she used to keep her spot in the notebooks began to fade over time and its edges eroded. I noticed it wasn't a single sheet of paper but rather a folded note. Carefully freeing it from its plastic case I was stunned at what it was, a postmarked check for twenty thousand dollars. I sat there laughing. She had made sure I was taken care of in the will but I guess this was her way of slipping in a bonus if I was curious enough.

I have a set of my own three little black notebooks now. Firs t thing I bought with the money she left me. My indented name stares up at me from new and pristine covers. A blue pen sits next to my notebooks. It is my favorite color after all. I have lived a good life so far but there are more adventures to be had now I can afford to and more wisdom to be shared. I will pass these on to my daughter once I am done and I will be sure to tuck a little something in a bookmark for her to find.