Much to Be Desired

I’ve always loved notebooks. I’ve always loved writing. I’ve been told I get that from my father.

“Don’t lose this, Trissa,” he told me. “It’s important.”

I held the little black Moleskine® notebook in my hands, smiling, yet still unsure of what was about to happen. “I won’t,” I promised.

“Don’t use it until tomorrow,” my father told me as though it was a million years away.

My father was a journalist for the local newspaper. He worked for a reasonable editor. As an amazing storyteller, he always encouraged me to write. He kept saying that someday I would be just like him, if not even better. I can only hope that I’ll live to make him proud.

It was my eighteenth birthday, in hindsight, it was a day I’ll never forget.

I blew out the candles on my modest little cake that I had bought for myself when the phone rang.

I listened, but I couldn’t quite identify how I felt. It was my birthday, and now something was terribly wrong, and no one would tell me anything directly.

I pulled into the hospital parking lot. My stomach hurt, and I felt sick.

The little black notebook was long forgotten in my bag, accompanied by several colored pens. I rushed into the general entrance, slightly out of breath.

After checking in at the front desk, a nurse approached me, asking, “Ma’am, are you related to Noah Brooks?”

“I am,” I answered as calmly as I could muster.

“Please come with me.”

“What happened?” I managed to ask, my brown eyes were glittering with tears. “Your father got into a bad car accident,” the doctor said. “We don’t know if he’s going to make it.”

I felt like a little girl again. I remembered many times in the middle of the night I would run to my father’s room during a thunderstorm.

This was definitely worse than a thunderstorm.

The following week, I was an absolute mess.

My knees shook as I walked up the stairs to the podium. My heart hurt, and I knew this wasn’t going to be easy.

“My father’s name was Noah David Brooks,” I began. “He was a good man. He was kind, he was fair, and he always kept a pen above his left ear.” I paused, glancing down at my typed notes. I tried to swallow the knot in my throat, it accomplished nothing.

“Noah was a journalist for Writing in the Wild. His words could bring the toughest of people to tears, and his stories will always be my favorite.” The knot tightened. “My father’s fatal injuries resulted from a dreadful car crash,” I stated solemnly, blinking rapidly to clear my vision. “He may be gone now, but he will be forever cherished in our hearts. I would like to read a brief poem I’ve written in commemoration of him.

“I am a writer and a dreamer.

I wonder why it all started in the first place.

I hear the gentle whispers in the breeze, saying: “it’ll all be okay…”

I see my dreams unfolding with mere paper and ink.

I want to live where I belong.

I am a writer and a dreamer.

I pretend to live where I belong.

I feel like I’m losing myself day by day.

I touch the gleaming stars in the night sky.

I worry about where I’ll end up.

I cry almost as much as I think.

I am a writer and a dreamer.

I understand that it isn’t my time to go.

I say to myself, “it’ll all be okay…”

I dream of living in a different universe.

I try to stay positive.

I hope my dreams will come true in the end.

I am a writer and a dreamer.”

I glanced up at the mourning crowd before me. I exhaled quietly, and I exited the stage.

“Your father has left behind a significant amount of money,” the executor explained patiently.

“How much money?” I asked.

“Around $20,000 is what is left in his account after all of the expenses we discussed have been paid. Now, what you would like to do with the money, that is up to you. He never distinctly established his wishes for the money in his will.”

“I don’t understand how he just had twenty grand lying around,” I thought aloud. “My father was a journalist, not a lawyer straight out of Harvard or Yale, but a local journalist!”

“I know this must be difficult to process. Here is my business card; please take all the time you need to make your decision.”

It had been weeks since my father’s death, but the wound was still fresh. I couldn’t eat, all I did was cry. The most interesting, incredible, insightful man I’ve ever known was lying in the ground, and he was gone forever.

I can honestly say that I’ve never felt so alone. Because my mother died in childbirth, having no other siblings to share my burden, my father was all that I’ve ever had. He meant the world to me, and just like that, he was gone.

Eventually, I decided to sell my father’s house, my childhood home. I went back and forth in my head, but I kept coming back to the same conclusion. My father wouldn’t have wanted me to grieve forever.

Going through his belongings was tough. I decided to keep all of his books. The term bibliophile couldn’t cover his love for reading and collecting books enough. I kept his written work, as he had saved everything he wrote. I saved a few other things, like pictures and birthday cards, important things that I will want to look back on in my old age.

It wasn’t just his belongings that I had to sort through. I never realized how much stuff I owned, how many things I didn’t really need in the first place, or how many notebooks I possessed.

I found an old backpack shoved in the bottom of my closet. Curiously, I rummaged through it, and I came across my eighteenth birthday present - the little, black Moleskine® notebook.

“Don’t lose this, Trissa,” he told me. “It’s important.”

It wasn’t too long ago that I turned eighteen. I recollected him telling me to read it on my birthday. I felt a pang of guilt upon recalling that I had forgotten all about it.

Bouncing slightly as I sat down on my bed, I took a moment to admire it. Black has always been my favorite color. I noticed that it was a smooth, softcover, lined notebook. The Moleskine® brand name was engraved on the back.

Upon opening the notebook, I observed the simple, black ribbon marking the first page.

In case of loss, please return to:

Noah Brooks

As a reward: $20,000

His phone number was listed below his name. My eyes widened at the sizable reward he had left behind.

Turning the page with care, I silently read his familiar handwriting.

Dearest Trissa,

Congratulations on becoming an adult! I’m so proud of the young woman you’ve become, and I can’t wait to see who you’ll turn out to be.

When you were a little girl, you asked me what my secret was. You wanted to know how I did certain things, and why I did them the way I did. You were five years old at the time.

Triss, I am proud to say that you are my secret. You are my inspiration and my daily motive to make the world a better place. I will always be proud of you, and I know if your mother was here, she would be too.

This notebook is filled with some of my other secrets, like how to overcome writer’s block, how to smile on the darkest of days, and a few writing prompts that have never failed me in my career thus far. Use this notebook as a safety net for your ideas, things you wish to remember, and things you would like to accomplish. I always knew you would make for a great writer, and I was right. The world is your oyster, and I’ll be with you every step of the way.

Happy eighteenth birthday, Trissa! Welcome to the writing world.

With love,

Dad

My eyes swelled up with tears. He always knew exactly what to say to make me feel okay again. I’m going to miss him.

I’ve always loved notebooks. I’ve always loved my dad. I can only hope that I’ll live to make him proud.