The boundary lines

This is not only the story of how this story, about a small black notebook, was written in a small black notebook.

Just as a life is not only the story of a life.

Along the dusty solitude of the Long Road. White, calm April sun on the shrubs, on metallic blue paint of this borrowed car. Earthly stifling uniformity. I've never liked spending too much time away from the water, whether it's an ocean, a lake, a river. I need to touch an uncertain, changing boundary line. We are all born along boundary lines, from land and water, from the encounter of worlds.

I park. No trees. No other cars. Yet, this is probably the only service station within a hundred miles. The old man from behind the window signals me to do it myself. I fill the tank. Two tabby cats are stretching. A dream catcher at the entrance. I go in to pay. All the spare parts in the universe are piled up on rickety shelves. At the back I glimpse a secluded table, the sun's rays illuminate it, the checkered tablecloth invites me to stop. I have been driving all night. I had breakfast with a candy bar found in the trunk.

The old man approaches without saying anything. Tanned skin, a woolen cap, cerulean eyes, a scar on the chin. I order a pizza and a beer. The old man mumbles something that should mean okay.

There are sepia photos hanging on the walls. I’d like to distract myself from the reason for the journey. My head is an abandoned factory. It used to produce poems. Now no one seems to care anymore. The factory has closed. A writer without a job, too fond of the boundary line between visible and invisible things, between paper to crumple and mystery to dwell in.

Just a moment of peace. A thud, a growl, this time it doesn't mean it's okay. I look out over the kitchen. The old man has fallen off a ladder. I try to help him as best. He only seems to have a sprained ankle. I call the emergency number anyway. I have to go. Waiting for me. My heart starts beating fast. The old man seems to understand me. Do as you like, son. His voice tries to soften but still sounds like it's coming from a sawmill. He points to a thermos on the counter. Fill it with coffee, you look like you need it.

The old man turns his head to loosen his neck muscles. Hands clinging to the armrests of the chair. Minutes of silence, all the essence of an encounter. A changing boundary line between us. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, decide to wait.

The ambulance arrives. There are two of them. A paramedic and an emergency medical technician. They look alike, like the numbers of hours that at certain times in your life, continually appear before your eyes. 11:11 or any other examples. They are young, actually, clumsy and inexperienced. They joke with each other. Anyway, they take care of the old man. I can resume my journey.

Wait up! This is yours! The old man is holding a small black notebook. No, I tell him, it's not mine. You dropped it when you were settling me in the chair, son, it fell out of your jacket pocket. I assure you it's not mine, I would recognize it. The old man is stubborn. The emergency workers stare at me in curiosity. I'm in a damn hurry. Finally, I take the small black notebook and put it in my pocket. I thank. I go out. I catch a glimpse of a smirk on the old man's face.

The gods. The gods, they tell you, are all-powerful. They're not; since yesterday afternoon. The cell phone rings. Tell me, Maria, I whisper. My wife's voice is broken with tears. They say Sophie needs emergency surgery. They are preparing her. Everything will be fine, my darling, everything will be fine. I affirm it, with an automatic voice, commanded by love, commanded by hope. But I know I can’t affirm anything, I can’t promise anything. My little girl is there, still an exasperating number of miles away. A fall, a childish accident. It could have been a scratch, a sprained ankle. Instead, she lost consciousness. My Sophie, my kite, my chamomile blossom, my pebble in the pond, on the boundary line between sleep and wakefulness.

Gods are not omnipotent. They were, perhaps. Then they became creators. A leaf, a tree, a hare, a human cub. They fell in love with their fragile creatures. And love made them partakers of fragility. I know love. I am a fragile god.

The cell phone again. Do you remember when she was born? Of course, I remember, Maria, that first wail, that cry of joy. I must be focused on driving, in a few miles there should be an intersection. Maria needs to talk, I understand. I've been driving for twenty-eight hours now, or twenty-nine. And my sense of direction is that of a bird raised in a cage. But I remember everything. Sophie. The first steps on the grass, the laughter from which whirlwinds of spring were born. Everything is written in little colorful notebooks.

I continue along the Long Road. I couldn't catch any planes. Airport blocked. Pandemic, hurricane, terrorism, work in progress and more. And this car isn't lightning. Evening is coming. Everything is blue. The boundary line between day and night. I'm out of coffee from the thermos. Even the police blinker is blue. Two young men in uniform, smiling. They look alike. 11:11 or any other examples. You can't go any further. Blocked road. Pandemic, hurricane, terrorism, work in progress and more. I have to turn right, continue to the third intersection. Then go ahead. Then. Then. Then I get lost. The cell phone has no signal. Radio transmits white noise. I might have gone backwards or forwards in time. The starry sky. The sunflower fields. A power pole, or a telegraph pole, who knows. Or maybe a totem pole. And maybe I fall asleep.

Two golden barn owls stand atop the totem pole. I rub my eyes. They are actually two youngsters. They look alike, of course. 11:11 or whatever. They stand there and stare at me. How is Raphael? It's still night but a glow radiates toward me and the sunflower fields. Raphael? I ask in a faint voice. Raphael! The old man at the service station. They answer me. Raphael the Grumpy. Raphael the Meek. The boundary line between goodness and absence.

You should know! They keep talking to me. Smiling, it seems to me from down here. There are not only asphalt or dirt roads. There are paths of words, of memories, of emotions. There are roads that cross the boundary lines. And you can't expect to learn them all by heart, to build a map of all the crossings.

The two golden barn owls fly down from the totem pole, now they are next to my ears, whispering. Don't fear the road, don't strain your heart, just meditate on where you want to be.

The purple dawn is taking over the sky. It fades into a new day. Maria, Sophie, the fragile creatures of love. A sign points me to the hospital.

Maria is sitting on the bench in the corridor, her eyes on the ground. Beside her a paper cup with tea from the vending machine. Now the two barn owls are two young nurses who look alike. 11:11. They carry the bed where Sophie is still sleeping. She has a curious bandage on her head, but everything about her smiles. Her little hands, her eyebrows, her nose.

The doctor, from behind the window, beckons me to enter his office. My breathing stops. He is standing, looking at the folders in silence. Then he looks up and says to me: all is well, son, all is really well. He has cerulean eyes, a scar on his chin. Raphael, it's written on his badge, with beautiful calligraphy.

From the hospital balcony you can contemplate the ocean. The wind ruffles my hair, the wind ruffles the roads. I reach into my jacket pocket. I feel relief. The notebook is still there. The texture of the paper that responds to touch. An object as concrete as love, as concrete as hope.

A small black notebook is not just a small black notebook.

And each line is a boundary line.

And inside, line after line, miracle after miracle, this story is written.