The Title

The Title

Everybody used to joke about Grandma’s little black book. “You got some phone numbers in there, Ellie?” they would say after my grandfather passed, and even now and then when he was alive. Other popular choices were, “You working for some secret operation, Grandma?” and, “How long until you publish that sequel to War and Peace?” Sometimes Grandma would look up and smirk; sometimes she’d smirk without looking up; and sometimes her face remained fully devoted to whatever world was in that book. But she’d always reply, in a tone as bold and carefree as the frizzy silver curls that spiraled down to her shoulders, “If I tell you, will you shut up?” All us grandkids would giggle, and our parents and great-aunts and great-uncles would roll their eyes and chuckle softly, having partaken in this back-and-forth for at least a couple of decades.

But Grandma never told, even when everyone shut up.

Grandma’s little black book was made of leather, and sometimes it was worn at the edges. Sometimes it wasn’t. This subtle detail was the only reason any of us knew that there were actually many little black books. Just the same, it was one book in everyone’s mind—the book my grandma was always pulling out of her purse, scribbling in, and tucking away again. It was as much a part of her as her deep red lipstick or her bright blue eyes.

I used to wonder about it every now and then—wonder deeply, I mean. My thoughts would transcend the surface-level curiosity that had been sewn into my family since before I was born. I think it was because I’d been writing poems since I knew how to print words, and before that, I was telling them out loud for whoever would listen. My sister and brother and cousins would hold interest as long as their attention spans could. My parents, aunts and uncles, and teachers would dote on me, always asking if I was going to be a writer when I grew up.

But no one’s feedback mattered as much as Grandma’s.

She didn’t overflow with cooing compliments. Rather, she’d take in my sing-song rhymes and clumsy rhythms with the same gaze that she channeled into her little black book. Her eyes looked miles deep, like they were plunging into the sea, and she’d nod with the poem. Her softest grin would fold into her face at the end.

“That was very good, Rose,” she’d say evenly.

I was probably around ten when I asked Grandma if I could see her poems. Her eyebrows jumped up.

“My poems?” she asked, sounding puzzled.

“You know, the ones in your little black book,” I said shyly. I’d come to believe—quite hopefully—that Grandma had been writing poems all this time.

Grandma lowered her eyebrows and gave a little chuckle, reaching for her coffee mug. She didn’t say anything, and I silently scolded myself for being so stupid. Grandma could have been jotting down grocery lists in that book for all I knew. She was a practical, no-nonsense woman; she painted her own walls and mowed her own lawn, even while my grandfather was alive. She openly told my parents or aunts or uncles if they didn’t “know their ass from their elbow” at the moment.

I never asked her about it again.

But Grandma kept reading my poems throughout middle school and high school and college. When I returned from a poetry study-abroad program in London with a slew of new poems, it was Grandma, naturally, who I wanted to show first.

I felt my lips flatten into a sheepish grin as I handed Grandma a piece of paper. It was only a day after my return home.

I looked at you and then I saw myself;

I’ll try to somehow tell you what I mean.

It lives with me in quiet, buzzing stealth—

This realization cloudy as a dream.

With wit so sharp and edges filed blunt,

You’re hardly a comparison to me;

My fluid shape rolls blurred words off my tongue—

No blotted shade the world around can’t see.

But maybe it’s the softness in your grin,

And maybe it’s the ocean in your gaze,

That weave our threads beyond the ties of kin,

Unveiling lines I find inside my daze.

The lines—they lead me to a simple truth:

Somehow, you see the world the way I do.

“That was beautiful, Rose,” she said, looking up with that soft grin.

“I wrote it for you,” I said somewhat bashfully, glancing down at my dirty cream-colored sneakers.

“Well, I would sure as hell hope so!” she quipped, smirking as she reached for her coffee just a little slower than she used to.

I laughed. “It’s in the style of a Shakespearean sonnet.”

She took a slow slip, her blue eyes glimmering. She smirked as she placed her mug back on the table. “What about the title? No title for me, huh?”

I shook my head and rolled my eyes playfully. “Really, Gram? Even Shakespeare didn’t title his sonnets! They were all numbered.”

She raised one gray-brown eyebrow, finishing another sip of coffee.

“Well, who says you gotta do what he did?”

Four years later, about a month after my grandmother passed away, I got a text from Carla, my closest cousin.

“Did your mom tell you? Grandma left all the grandkids $5,000.”

I wasn’t a bit surprised. If anything, I was peeved at Carla for caring enough to text me about it. What did five grand even matter?

I hadn’t written a single poem since Grandma had died. I’d barely even tried. I’d briefly attempted a memorial piece for her, but the words just weren’t flowing. I’d gotten frustrated and put the idea on hold.

A few hours after the text from Carla, I got a call from my mom. She asked me to come over the following Saturday, and given the timing, I figured it had to do with Grandma’s will.

Over the next few days, the idea of the inheritance grew on me—but it didn’t have anything to do with the money itself. It was for the same reason I kept opening the last birthday card Grandma had written for me and re-reading the bumpy cursive. The idea of any connection to her felt soothing.

When Saturday rolled around, I sat in the overstuffed armchair in my parents’ living room, feeling myself sink into the cushions. It felt like a physical representation of the way I’d been shrinking away from myself.

“So is it a check, or what?” I asked my mom as she lowered herself onto the couch across from me.

Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“The $5,000. Carla told me about it.”

My mom’s eyes narrowed and she shook her head slowly. “Carla can be such a damn loud-mouth.” She paused, taking a deep breath. “Grandma didn’t leave you any money.”

I felt my face freeze. The loss inside me swelled, contorting into an uglier shape.

“What? Carla said all the grandkids were getting it.”

“Carla doesn’t know everything.”

I felt my eyes flood. I couldn’t care less about the money; what I cared about was my grandmother, who had apparently excluded me. It didn’t make any sense.

“Well, what is there to know?”

My mom looked at me with a gentle twinkling in her eyes. “Grandma paid for your semester in London, Rosie.”

I felt the stillness of the room. I could hear the clock ticking on the wall.

“That was $20,000.”

“Yes, and she paid every cent. There was no way your dad and I could’ve done it.”

“So you asked her?”

“Nope. I vented to her about how bad I felt, and I never in a million years expected her to say, ‘Oh, I’ll pay it,’ like it was nothing. But that was exactly what she did. She didn’t even want help paying for it—she wanted to send you to London herself.”

I just sat there for a moment, stunned, before blurting out the obvious question.

“Why didn’t I know about it?”

My mom shook her head mirthfully, dipping her eyes into the past. “That’s your grandma for ya. She’d go on and on about finding a deal at a garage sale, but the second she did something really incredible, she didn’t want anyone to know. She didn’t want any praise for it. For almost a year she told me she was just going for a walk after dinner every night, and then one day I caught her bringing leftovers to a homeless man. That was just her.” My mom smiled a little, shaking her head again. “Her one condition about paying for your poetry program was that you wouldn’t know until she was dead.”

I sat in awe as my mom rose and made her way to a cardboard box on the floor. I hadn’t noticed it. She picked it up with effort and carried it over, placing it at my feet.

“Grandma did leave this specifically to you, though.”

Curious, I bent over and gingerly pulled open the cardboard flaps. My hands flew to my mouth automatically.

Lined up in that box were rows of little black books—all worn at the edges, all stacked upon one another.

I stared down in disbelief, my mouth hanging open. I looked up at my mom, whose soft grin made her look like my grandmother. She placed a hand on my shoulder. “This is between you and Grandma,” she said. “I’m gonna go start dinner.”

Unable to really think, I reached down and grabbed one of the books. The smooth leather felt natural in my palm.

This was Grandma’s secret endeavor—the purpose of which I had only been able to ponder. And now I was pulling the cover back, just like that.

The first page held a group of words in Grandma’s quick cursive, but they soon grew into something else entirely:

To Everyone at this Summertime Barbecue

White orbs of light are strung across

The dark night sky.

It’s as if they are

Bursts

Of laughter and words

And light, fizzy thoughts

Glowing,

Floating,

Lingering above

Our love.

It was what I’d wanted to believe all along.

Over the next couple of weeks, I pored over the words in every little black book. Each title was fashioned in this way:

“To My Second Daughter, Jane, on Her Wedding Day”

“To My Third Granddaughter, Rose, on the Day She is Born”

“To My Husband, Steve, Three Weeks After He Passed Away”

“To This Sunrise”

“To an Autumn Afternoon”

“To the Rolling Pin I’ve Had for Forty-Two Years”

I was holding my grandmother in my hands—and every bit of her, she’d used to preserve the world as she saw it.

That’s when I noticed a corner of a piece of paper peeking out from behind one of the book stacks. I gently pulled it out to reveal a piece of computer paper in a quarter-fold.

When I opened it, I somehow wasn’t ready to see what was there:

I looked at you and then I saw myself;

I’ll try to somehow tell you what I mean.

It lives with me in quiet, buzzing stealth—

This realization cloudy as a dream.

With wit so sharp and edges filed blunt,

You’re hardly a comparison to me;

My fluid shape rolls blurred words off my tongue—

No blotted shade the world around can’t see.

But maybe it’s the softness in your grin,

And maybe it’s the ocean in your gaze,

That weave our threads beyond the ties of kin,

Unveiling lines I find inside my daze.

The lines—they lead me to a simple truth:

Somehow, you see the world the way I do.

I felt a moment pass before I was up, grabbing the first pen I saw on my desk. I set the paper down, smoothing it out, and carefully printed a title above the first line:

“To My Grandmother, Eleanor ‘Ellie’ Cielo, a Poet”