The Weight Of A Book

The Weight Of A Book

Prologue

I was the one to find it. The key that is. I know what you are thinking, but there is so much more to it than that. Let me tell you what happened.

My aunt recently passed away. It came as a shock to us all. She had left everything she owned to be split between the family as we saw fit, though she said in her will, that her house and everything in it would go to the one who understood her love for life the most. The family wanted to keep the house as a family retreat and they decided to have the locks on the doors changed, that was until I found the key. I was the only one who wanted her journal. The black hard cover was all too familiar. I had watched my aunt write in these lined pages. Writing “her story” as she would call it. It is the one thing that got me into writing. She had always told me that while we may pass away, our stories will be remembered.

That was why I wanted it. While I had never read the words that she had written during her life, it was my chance to finally read her story. This was the book that she had carried with her to the hospital. The one that she had penned the last days of her life. The one that told me that while her death had been a shock to us it had been in no way a shock to her. She had written about her loss of energy, her quickly declining body. The timeline that she had been given. As I read through the book I had laughed and cried with my aunt, felt her happiness at my frequent and unexpected visits that made her days shine with happiness. Her wishes for me to become the writer that she knew I could become and her regrets that she would never get to see those accomplishments.

It was here at the end of her story, nestled between the folds of the back pocket that she had put the key to the one thing that she held almost as dear as her little black books. I knew that I would find the rest of her story in her home. As I walked up the drive of the house I smiled recounting the way she loved to sit in her garden. She told me that she adored watching the flowers come up through the ground to always bloom on the sunniest day of Spring. It was there that she found peace and picked only the second most beautiful flowers, because “the prettiest flowers should be left to show the rest of them how to be beautiful.”

Surveying the tudor style house I could appreciate the love and care that my aunt put into its upkeep. The newly replaced gabled roof, freshly painted trim, stone walls cleaned and ivey cut back to a manageable level. It was a picture perfect house. One from an old fairytale or children's fables. The only thing that needed to be done was to tend the lawn which I was more than happy to hire someone to take care of as I didn’t want to accidentally ruin her garden. Retrieving the key from the pocket of the book I quickly unlocked the door. It had only been a few short weeks since her passing and the house seemed to hum with her quiet energy. The plants are mostly dead, though some could be coaxed back to life with some water and a little love. They seemed to tilt toward the light from the door as the sunlight poured in. I bustled here and there, pulling water from the sink to save the parched ferns, drew back the curtains and opened the windows to let in fresh air. As I watched the pale soil soak up the liquid my gaze was pulled up the staircase to the doorway I knew held her study.

I let myself wander to the room. The smell of books, paper, and Chanel No. 5 filled my nostrils, feet guiding me to the desk. She had bought this desk since before I was born. The wood was so old that there was an indent from where she would always rest her journal and pen. The pen was a fountain pen with refills which was pretty heavy when compared to plastic pens. I saw the refills there on the edge of her desk. The pen, however, rested in the small elastic hoop on the top of the book that she always made sure she added to every single one of her books. There the bookshelves stood, filled with her story, every single one of them precious to me and every single one invaluable. I tore to the bookshelf, choosing the oldest one and happily sat down at her desk and began to read.

It had taken me months to read all of those books. All filled with happiness and sadness, boredom and interest. I had read about her happiness for my mother during her wedding to my father, her sadness over my Pop Pop’s passing, her displeasure as she found herself locked in a job that meant nothing to her, and her excitement over the love of her life whom I had never met. I had read about the baby that she had become pregnant with, the baby whom I would never get to be a cousin to and which ultimately led to the loss of the love of her life. Her confusion, her anger at herself, the happiness that she had found again when my mother had finally had me and the joy that I brought her when I expressed a love for writing that she herself harbored. I had never known truly how much I had meant to her. As I finished the books of her story I had found that there was one book, one little black, hardcover book left on the shelf. As I lifted it up I realized that it was the only personalized cover that did not have my aunt’s name on it, but mine.

Sitting down in the leather chair that accompanied her desk I opened the front page to read the small inscription left by my aunt.

My Dearest Niece,

You have found it as I knew you would. The one person who understood my love for life and my acceptance of everything that it was the most had always been you. I know that you have finished reading my story and I would love more than anything if you would write yours. Pass this gift on, as I have, to a niece or nephew or a child of your own. While I may never be able to call you on your birthday and sing to you again, know that I will always be a page turn away. I am always here with you and as always you have all my love.

Her flourishing signature adorned the bottom of the page of the book that was closed with a quiet thump and a tiny rush of wind that in no way compared to the wind that had just been knocked out of me. The throbbing in my chest quickly and yet slowly all the same worked its way up my throat, heat rising and settling between my eyes as tears began their quick descent. As I tried to control the few sobs that managed to escape I reached for the tissue box that had become a constant companion to me through the past few months. I had thought that I was over my crying, my mourning over her loss, though I realize now how foolish that was of me to expect. Every memory, every thought of her and everything that I would never get to do with her again came crashing down again and I wished more than anything that I could make my mind slow down.

My fogged glance landed on the book that was slowly being bogged down by my tears. Wiping them away with my sleeve I did what my aunt wanted me too and began to write, about my sadness over the loss of my aunt, the fear of a future without her, my hopes for everything that I wanted to accomplish and so much more. Finally when my weeping had ceased and my mind had slowed I closed the book. ‘I’ll have to put elastic on the top.’ I pondered as I slid the book into the corner of the desk that was already indented from years of use. As the book slid into place a tiny click was heard and the drawer on the desk, that I had thought was only decorative, opened. Inside sat a decorative box that I had given to her for her collection on her 50th birthday. I lifted it from the drawer with trepidation. I thought I had found everything that my aunt would have kept, but something hidden in a drawer? I had put many of her books on that spot always accompanied with her pen as she had always kept them as I read through them, but now, with mine, brand new and no pen attached, it had opened without a hitch. What was she hiding? Lifting the lid from the box I found a collection of money. All of them 100 dollar bills. As I found out it was $20,000 all told. All mine to use how I saw fit.

Now I sit at this desk, my life moved into the house that had become mine in the aftermath of my aunt’s passing. My little black book sitting in the corner of the desk waiting for me to finish writing this prologue to a book that may never make it big, but will always hold a place in my heart as the memoirs of my aunt’s life. The remaining money that she left me will be used to publish the book. Where did the first part go you may wonder. It was used to buy the same little black notebooks that my aunt loved so much which will hold the first draft to her memoirs. I only hope that I can do her life justice and immortalize her in the turn of a page.