Souvenir

“We will start the bidding at ten dollars,” echoed the voice of a distant auctioneer as I hastily entered the community center’s main auditorium. As surprised as I was to find myself under the gaze of what seemed to be an ongoing estate sale - judging by the signage - so too were the participants surprised by my windswept and soaked appearance.

Having been swept into the community center by a sudden onslaught of rain and wind, along with a considerable amount of water, I had no choice but to saunter into the last row of neatly arranged folding chairs. I found their grey and well-worn appearance to be rather fitting for the ongoing auction. As I shed myself of my overcoat, placing it on the seat next to me, I began to survey the other gathers. Based on their dry and solemn appearances, dark clothing and somber expressions, they - unlike myself - seemed to be here intentionally.

Two rows ahead of me and across the center isle from myself was a grief swept young woman, wringing a handkerchief between her white knuckles. To her right, a large and empathetic looking man reached forward to cover her weary hands with his own. What was their connection to this sad diaspora of someone’s life’s possessions, to the life and to the possessions?

To the front and just left of the auctioneer was a gloved, griefless woman, who surveyed the items on the stage with a look that could only be described as pride. So much, I inspected the signage at the front and rear of the auditorium once more to ensure I had not been mistaken. Alas, this was indeed the final dispensation of some dearly departed’s dearest decor.

My gaze finally arrived at the stage, immediately affixed on a portrait standing on an easel next to the auctioneer’s podium. A black-and-white photograph, large and reminiscent of those capturing the likenesses of Audrey Hepburn or Frank Sinatra, bore the image to whom these things once belonged.

A man, one with miles etched on his face, unbent and unsoured by the roads he’d traveled. A wide smile rested on his lips, a delighted wisdom glistened in his dark eyes as he gazed off past the lens capturing his portrait. Hands which had clearly known hard work were interlocked at the fingers in front of him, as if he’d been waiting here for us this whole time. He was familiar, a man I knew all at once though I had never seen him before. He was every man and not a single one.

I sat, transfixed, and contentedly still in this man’s remaining presence until the auctioneer’s strangest starting bid caught hold of my ear, “The bidding starts at one cent.” Peeling my eyes from the portrait, I realized that all other items on the stage had gone. So too, had most of the audience. No more watchful onlookers, no more wringing, teary woman or her dutiful companion. Only myself, the gloved woman, the auctioneer, and this item.

“The deceased’s personal journal - do I hear an offer in back?” I was clearly the target of this item, being the only one left to place a bid. “Yes, one cent,” The words escaped my lips before I’d even thought to form them. “Sold! To the man in back, come on down.” I rose from my seat and adorned my large coat, which had sufficiently dried by now, I turned toward the isle and was met with an outstretched, gloved hand. In it, a tattered, worn, little black book.

The woman before me stood poised, regal, and looked upon me with the same proud expression I’d seen earlier. “Young man, this was the most valuable item on that stage,” her voice even, amused almost, as a smile swept her face. “My husband wanted it saved for last, he said it was special and whoever would wait that long would be special too,” a tear began to form in her eye, her loving gaze not seeing me or this book at all.

“Well, I am touched that either of you should think so, ma’am,” I was taken aback by her sudden vulnerability. “I am terribly sorry for your loss,” I began, genuinely, “He seemed to be an amazing man.” She took my hand into her own, a teary smile on her face, her proud expression magnified. “He most certainly was,” and with those words she released my hands and departed, leaving me with heartache and her love’s journal.

Overcome with my own sudden emotion, and confusion over it, I pushed the journal into my coat pocket, pulled my coat around myself, and exited this emotional spectacle.

Upon emerging onto the street, I quickly shielded my unprepared eyes from the high, late-afternoon sun and was all at once aware that I’d entered the community center just before lunch - a meal I frequently skipped lately. I turned and began to walk my usual route toward the park a few blocks down the road from the community center.

Each step carrying me past old, familiar and unwelcoming haunts. My own spectres hanging over my favorite places in town. My right hand firmly holding this little black souvenir of my time in the presence of a well loved man, propelling me through the cold late-winter air.

At last, I found myself on a well lit park bench. The sun began its descent, shining perfectly over my shoulder as the cover of the palm-sized black book fell open for me. A folded piece of paper fell into my lap, exposing the first words in this little book, “Find your happiness, accept nothing else.”

I sat, pondering those words for a moment before reaching down to unfold the scrap of paper that had fallen into my lap. As my hands peeled it apart, my heart sprang into my throat stopping both my pulse and my breathing. In my hands, a check for $20,000, with the memo line reading “keep reading”. I was awestruck. What on earth had I stumbled onto?

I pocketed the check and turned the journal’s page. What seemed at first to be a series of singular and unconnected words, quickly became a list:

“Black coffee, sunflower seeds, hot showers,

Fishing, swimming, the sound of a fire, fireflies…”

This list went on and on for pages, cataloging all of the things this man had done, seen, dreamt of, and planned to do. All things he’d loved, and he’d crossed out the things he didn’t. At the end of his list, was an instruction: “Fill in the rest, when you are finished, flip to the back.”

And so, I began. From my favorite coffee shops, to my favorite films, the video games my brothers and I had played in my youth, the time our parents would join us in playing, the books I had read as a child and the books I plan to read now. I wrote and wrote until the sun had crept well below my shoulder. I wrote without hesitation, without reservation - without the spectres of this town hanging over me.

I dreamed wild dreams, wild possibilities, of snow capped mountain tops beyond lush clouds, of dew covered flora and early morning bird song in some far off rain forest. I dreamed long nights sleeping under the stars, of road trips with more time spent stopped and walking than behind the wheel, of late nights at diners and of laughter and love.

I dreamed of a crackling fire, breaking up the silence of a home filled with warm socks and sleeping children. I dreamed of my final entry on the list, “you”.

I dreamed of the places and things you and I will love, of the home we will build, I dream of the way you hold my hand in the car, or rest your head on my shoulder on the couch. I dream of the way your hair smells, the way your voice tickles the back of my neck, the way your breathing changes when you fall asleep. I dream of the infinite ways in which I will love you.

Tears filling my eyes, I placed my pen down on the bench; and, as instructed, I turned to the last page of this life-altering, little black book and began to read.

“Nothing on my list brought me any joy without her.

Nothing made sense without her.

If your own list is the same, you have found your happiness.

Accept nothing less.”

Closing the book, and my eyes, leaning back against this cold bench, I allow tears to roll down my cheeks. With a long, cold inhale, I tucked the folded check back inside the front of the journal once more. “He most certainly was,” I whispered to myself as I slowly sat the book onto the bench, next to my pen. I stood, breathing for what felt like the first time, and I stepped forward.