Little Black Book

Two days after the funeral, it arrived at her apartment; a brown paper parcel, neatly wrapped, postmarked from Nina's lawyer. It stayed on the front hall table for three more days, as she was just too busy to open it. She knew what was inside. They had been told that there was no money. Aunt Nina had lived a simple life for a poet of international acclaim. Nora's brothers had been sure there was some money coming to them after Nina passed, and their anger was palpable at the funeral home when Tom Muston of Muston and Graves had approached them to discuss it. He informed them that they would each be receiving a couple of Nina's favourite books. Ned and Nelson were not the reading type. They certainly didn't display an advanced, or even non-vulgar vocabulary upon receiving this news either, and Nora had simply thanked Mr. Muston and walked away, leaving her brothers to their cursing and name-calling.

"Nora," Tom had said, touching her arm lightly as she rounded the corner back into the reception hall, which was teeming with Nina's friends and fans. "Nina left you a few extra books. You can pick them up at my office. I have only shipped you the most important ones, as per her instructions: the Angelou poetry volume, and her final journal. You'll find the rest of those journals in the box at my office, but she was most insistent this last one be mailed to you directly."

Nora thanked him again and returned to the guests, marvelling to herself at what a strange lady her Aunt Nina had been; so quiet and humble, and devoted her charitable causes right till the end. In fact, that's where the last of the money had gone; much to Ned's and Nelson' chagrin. They would never dream of helping anyone but themselves. Nora understood why her aunt wouldn't have wanted to leave them anything, but she did feel a bit hurt that she too, was receiving only a few belongings.

So now, finally, after another long week of working three jobs, interrupted only by the late-night phone call and the funeral, Nora collapsed on the sofa with a glass of white wine, and let out a deep sigh. She thought about her aunt, and how she had religiously kept her daily journal for years. She had told Nora repeatedly that writing in it each day allowed her to process her thoughts, make decisions and plans, and was ultimately the secret to both her calm exterior and her creative success. But Nora was as stubborn as her brothers in her own way, and insisted that she just didn't have time for journalling.

On her birthday visit six months ago, they had repeated the same conversation, with Nora explaining that her crazy schedule of three jobs was to pay off her student loan, on which she still owed $20,000, and that once that was gone, she would be able to devote her spare time to writing her poetry. It was her talent for poetry that had brought her close to her famous aunt, and Nina was eager for Nora to find success. Nina had given her niece a neatly-wrapped gift, which turned out to be a perfect black Moleskine journal, just like the one that Nina always used.

"For a minute there, I thought you were going to pay off her loan!" said Ned.

"Yeah, but give her any money and you owe us too!" said Nelson. "At least we didn't waste our money on English degrees. We don't need any book smarts!"

Nora made a face at her aunt, and Nina responded with a smile. "All you need is right here, dear," she said, patting the leather Moleskine cover.

Nelson reached over, roughly pulling off the elastic closure and rifling through the pages. "Blank!" he exclaimed. "Guess you don't need nothing, Nora!" Ned and Nelson guffawed and slapped hands, then got up to leave, gesturing to Nora that it was time to go. She kissed her aunt, tucked the notebook into her bag, and left with her brothers.

Draining the last of her wine from her glass, she thought of her aunt's success and wondered if her journals contained any secretes to her enormous output of poetry. She fetched the parcel from the hall table and sat down. On top was Maya Angelou's Complete Poetry Collection. When she opened the cover and saw the inscription made out to her aunt, she was amazed, but not surprised. "This must be worth something!" she thought, then realized, no, she could never sell it as the sentimental value was far greater. Nora got up, placed the volume on her tall bookshelf, and poured herself another glass of chardonnay.

Settling back into the sofa, she picked up the Moleskine and started to read. Her aunt's artistic swirl of penmanship carried her away into ruminations on the retirement home, the people there, her brothers, and herself. Her aching heart churned a bit as she read her aunt's reflection on her birthday visit; how her aunt wished to help her but felt that she couldn't because of her brothers and their greed. Then one line stood out: "I only hope that someday Nora will realize what that Moleskine really holds."

"What on earth does that mean? Is she still thinking that my subconscious thoughts will lead to genius?" Nora continued reading, hoping for more clues, but as her aunt's health had declined in her last few months and the entries became fewer and shorter, Nora's eyelids became heavier and her breathing shallower.

With a thud, the notebook slipped from her hand to the hardwood floor, waking Nora instantly. As she reached down for it, she saw a tiny folded slip of paper poking out of a pocket at the back of the book. It was the story of Moleskine. "That's cute," Nora thought, marvelling at the handy pocket as she set the note on her table. She peeked into the pocket, half hoping for something more substantial, but inside was just another copy of the same thing. Nora shrugged, placed both back in the pocket, and packed herself off to bed.

It was around 4 AM when her eyes suddenly flew open. Moleskine was not the type of company to make a mistake and put more than one insert in a notebook. Where had the second one come from?

Still half asleep, she started rifling through her desk, her bookshelves, night table, closet; all the places where she might have tucked that unused Moleskine. At last she found it, tucked into the back of her closet, still in the bag she had carried to her aunt's that day. It had been the end of spring, and she had broken out her summer gear the next day, replete with flowers.

Cross-legged on the bed, she stared down at the notebook in her hands. Was this crazy? Was it just the wine feeding her ideas? She carefully released the elastic, recalling her brother's roughness with it, then opened the notebook to the back. She reached into the pocket, took hold of the folded paper inside, and pulled it out. A broad smile spread across her face.

Finding a pen in her night table drawer, she flipped to the front of the Moleskine, wrote the date at the top of the first page, and began: Today is the day I pay off my student loans, quit my extra jobs, and begin my creative life, thanks to my Aunt Nina, a truly phenomenal woman."