The View from the Inside

The road was barely visible through the early morning mist, illuminated only by the soft glow of the gas lamp posts lining the cobble-stoned sidewalks. The young woman walked lightly through the sleeping city, careful not to startle the stillness. This was her favorite view of the city. Sunday mornings at the heart of town, watching the mist swirl in the first glow of the sunrise, not a soul in sight. She loved the city, but not in the conventional way. She loved the people, but only from a distance.

This morning, something new caught her eye. There, stapled to a phone pole, was a flyer with a picture of a little black book. “Reward: $20,000. Little black book. Last seen at Birchwood Café on 23rd NE Street. Contains the musings of an old man. Please call 473.556.2319.” There were several copies. She instinctively pulled one down and studied it for a moment before tucking it away in her pocket.

A black book? She wondered. What kind of little book could possibly be worth $20,000? Intrigued, she turned left at the next intersection, instead of her usual right, toward the Birchwood Café.

She was the first customer there. It was a quaint little shop with wood floors adorned with multicolored rugs, several couches covered with pillows, and bookshelves spanning each wall from floor to ceiling. The barista behind the counter looked up from her book to say good morning. “What can I get you?” she asked. The young woman ordered a coffee and showed her the flyer. “Mind if I take a look around?” she asked. “Be my guest” the barista replied, “although, I should warn you, you’re not the first one to look; this place was packed with people yesterday, and no one could find it. But hey, worth a shot, maybe you’ll get lucky. Here’s your coffee,” she said. “Thanks,” the young woman replied, as she took her coffee and set out to search.

The paradox of love,

Limerence existing in agony,

Floating as you fall,

Silhouettes in solitude,

Anchored to the wind

“No luck,” she told the barista, as she returned the empty mug. But she didn’t accept defeat. “Do you know who is looking for this book?” The young woman asked. The barista explained that it was an old woman who came to her shop each morning, although she hasn’t been in for a week. “She sits in that corner, there,” she said, motioning to a large coral armchair beside the window, “to read her little black book and drink a London Fog each morning. After her tea we generally have a bit of a chat, and then she walks down to the docks to watch the seagulls. I’ve been worried, since she hasn’t come in for so long, it’s not like her.”

Amethysts in alleyways,

Serendipitous escapes,

Heart pounding in the silence,

Clocks freeze in your embrace

The docks were always the first to awaken in the city. An early morning jogger passed by, boats rocked in the gentle waves, and a couple holding hands sat on a bench to watch the sunrise. The young woman generally avoided the bustle of the docks, but the golden sunrise softened the edges of the commotion and gave an impression of warmth to the crisp sea air. She searched each dock, looked under each bench, and paced the sidewalk several times, showing the flyer to each person she passed. Just as she was about to leave, an old woman walked by and sat down at a bench. “Excuse me, hi, good morning. Have you by chance seen this little black book?” “Oh, hello, no, unfortunately I have not, although I wish I had!” the old woman replied. “Is this your flyer?” the young woman asked. “No, no, but it belongs to a dear friend of mine. She lost her book last week. It belonged to her late husband, you see,” the old woman hesitated a moment, before adding, “There was a fire, poor dear, and it’s all she has left of him.”

Stagnant and silent air,

Torment evaporating,

Into numb despair,

Hold me close,

Feel my heartstrings tear

The young woman sat down next to the old woman as she began to share what had happened. The old woman told stories of her own life, as well. The young woman listened; she didn’t have any stories of her own to share. She listened to a lifetime of beautiful friendships, unlikely adventures, and unconditional love. The young woman lost herself in the stories, as the old woman found herself again. After some time, the topic of the black book resurfaced, and the young woman asked if there was any other place she could think of to look. “I believe after sitting on this bench, we went to the farmers market down on Willow street, you could always try looking there, but they pack up after each week, so I don’t know if you’ll have much luck.”

The Market was bustling, but the young woman didn’t notice. She walked the length of each aisle lined with stalls selling everything from fresh fish to handcrafted wooden shoes and artisanal soaps. “I know that book!” exclaimed a heavyset fisherman from behind his booth. “The musings of an old man, aye? I’m sure it must mean Olly. He and his wife would come here every Sunday to buy my fish for years. Until the accident, and now I only see his wife come every so often. She was here last week, I think. Olly used to write in a black book in the park by the cemetery over there. I’m so sorry to hear she’s lost it, after” he paused as his brow furrowed in a pained memory, “after everything.” He went on to tell the young woman about how Olly and he became close friends and would often fish together down at the docks in the early morning. The young woman listened. She felt a pang of sadness for this old man who had lost his friend, but could sense the joy he held for the friendship they had shared.

The eloquence of ageless love,

Her Luminosity Transends,

My Mellifluous sequoia,

Eyes closed to evade the end

“Last week was the anniversary of his death,” said the old man, as he glanced mournfully at the cemetery across the park on the other side of the street. The young woman thanked him for his time and his stories, and crossed the street. She looked at the dates on the gravestones as she passed, calculating the age, and imagining their lives. Did they also have love stories and adventures? She wondered. Gabriella Marcus: 1895-1970, one stone read. Anthony Marcus: 1885-1970. Were they in love? She passed families, men, women, and one child, only 12 years old. What stories would they have shared? She wondered. Oliver Collins: 1935-2020. The stone was adorned with wilted flowers. The young woman thought about Oliver as she searched for the book. Will I have stories told about me? Will I have someone to sit on the grass above my gravestone? As an observer, her heart was kept safe, never broken. “But is a heart that can’t be broken one worth having at all?” she asked aloud, as she sunk down against the trunk of a nearby tree. As she let her weight sink into the ground, reflecting the sinking feeling in her heart, she felt it. Deep under the leaves, there it was. The young woman forgot her troubles and let out a slight gasp as she frantically brushed off the leaves to reveal the book. She had found it. She opened it to see the first page, which read “Property of Olly Collins”.

Ethereal Epiphanies,

Two silhouettes anchored as one,

Roots intertwined with ease,

To love and to be loved

My greatest reward, my Eloise

“Hello, you don’t know me, but I saw your flyer on the street this morning and, well, I found your book!” The young woman nervously exclaimed over the phone. The old woman replied with a startled “Oh my,” and couldn’t find the words to say next. She paused a moment to collect herself and, with a trembling voice that nearly broke, she said, “please, won’t you come for a cup of tea at my house this afternoon?”. “I would be happy to,” the young woman replied.

The house was a small stone cottage on the edge of the city, away from the bustle and nestled into the trees. The side of the house was scorched black and surrounded by fragmented remains of what had been destroyed. The old woman opened the door and sobbed when she saw the black book, held out to her by the young woman on her porch. Unable to speak, she ushered the young woman in with one hand, wiping her tears with the other. Once inside, the old woman explained that her late husband had written their love story and the beauty of his life through poetry in this book. The young woman listened as she wept and shared the stories of their life together. The young woman felt her heart open, as tears streamed down her face.

The old woman placed a check into the young woman’s hands, with tears flowing down her face and falling into her smile. The young woman looked down at the check and said, “I can’t accept this reward. You are too kind, but you’ve already given me a much greater reward that I will cherish.” The old woman looked confused. “I began this day as I do every other, a visitor, an outside observer. This little black book welcomed me inside.”

The kismet dissonance,

Inexplicably Intertwined,

The painful magnificence,

Of seeing the world from inside

- Olly Collins