The words you left behind.

To tell you the truth, I never opened the book. It sat on the side table for 15 years of marriage and then 32 lonely ones after that. Sat there like constance, like a remembrance, and when I lay my head on the pillow each night I knew it would be there when I woke up, just as Jeannie left it.

Beautiful Jeannie. Adventurous girl she was. She would laugh at the stodgy old man I’d become, bumbling around, liable to fall and break a hip. It’s funny the way I never really believed it would happen to me. Or to her.

Funny, the way I could feel her hand on mine. Resting on the cover of a simple black journal, like she was there, and urging me on.

To see what was inside.

Maybe it had been wrong of me, to leave it so long.

Jeannie. Her name, in her own hand, bright as day on that front page. She used to write in cursive. She had the worst handwriting of anyone I knew. Her grocery lists were a scrawl. Her planner nearly illegible. But here, her letters were even, slanted in uniform, like she had really taken her time with it. Like it was something special. And just like that, I was all torn up inside.

I just couldn’t do it. Couldn’t see what she had left for me. The words unspoken between us.

So the book sat a few days longer.

Boxes piled up around it. But still on that same nightstand. That same constance. Until the nightstand, too, had to go- and I was left in a large, empty house, everything sold or packed except a change of clothes and the journal I still hadn’t been able to open.

Leaving the house felt like leaving Jeannie. Even if it was necessary. Even if I knew in a logical, rational way that I couldn’t take care of myself anymore. That the senior community was my only option. And my thoughts turned back to the book. It would be nice to have one last conversation, I thought. A sort of goodbye. Or, until we meet again.

And with that moment’s courage, I opened up its pages. I opened up to somewhere in the middle and I thought, she must not have written very far. I kept flipping back pages, one by one, working my way back to the beginning. Until the pages began to get thin in my hand. Until I flipped to that last clean page that should have made the first entry and realized that there was nothing for me in these pages.

And the worst part is, I’d felt so close to her those last few days. It had been foolish of me. To imagine that I felt her, close by. To imagine that she’d left something for me, something to comfort me. The hope had been so desperate. But Jeannie never would have led me to an empty book. She never would have broken my heart like that.

I felt more alone than ever.

The next day was rainy. And I sat at the window and watched a little boy in boots playing in a puddle. It was a magnificent day for paper boat racing, with water guzzling in a stream down the side of the street.

The idea was childish, but what did I have to lose? I fished my umbrella out of a box. Time was slipping away. All I needed were a few sheets of paper. I started to look, but I couldn’t find any. I couldn’t remember that I had any packed away. Why would I have? But I worried that if I didn’t hurry, I wouldn’t have time to make the boats before the rain stopped. And the little boy in the yellow boots would go inside.

My gaze landed on the journal. It sat open, unassuming on Jeannie’s side of the bed.

And I decided that Jeannie would have wanted me to live.

I tore out the pages, and fashioned two little paper boats. A simple design. But, boy, did they race. Put into motion, they rushed down the street and away, while we were clapping and hollering. Past where we could see them. They just kept going.

There was a hole in the beginning of the book that Jeannie left for me. Torn out pages left a ruffled edge that couldn’t be hidden or replaced. But it felt better than a blank page. Those papers had lived. And they made the world a happier place to be in. Just as Jeannie had.

My heart felt a little lighter.

The next few days I thought a lot. All I had was time- time without Jeannie, time alone, time to think and time to decide. Waiting time between the life I had lived in that house, and the life I would begin, again, at the Senior Center, when they took me.

There was a bank account. The one I had been shocked by after her death. For 32 years, I’d never touched it because it never really felt like mine. It was Jeannie’s money, and I had no reason to use it. 20,000 dollars. What would an old guy like me spend it on, all on my own.

But I thought I had an idea, something that Jeannie would approve of. I called the bank and got the money in cash. The next few days weren’t so lonely. I was hard at work, constructing a plan. I tore the pages from the book. And began to build. The house was not empty, anymore. It began to be filled with creatures. Flying cranes, I had lovingly brought to life in honor of Jeannie. Frogs that could bounce. Gleaming little bunny rabbits. And butterflies that were beautiful despite imperfection. They filled the house. They bounded down the hallways and they sprawled out on top of boxes, and they trailed down the banister of the staircase.

When they were all ready, and when there were only a few pages left in the book, I took them into town.

I filled up bags with them and named them. I hid them on the subway. Hid the frog with the smiling face looking out the window. I hid them in the store on the corner, and in-between books on the library shelf. They sat, waiting to be found on the slides of the playground set. And on chairs at the pizza place.

Ready to be picked up by anyone who could see the wonder and joy in them.

Ready to help, with a fresh hundred dollar bill tucked secretly inside of them. They overran the city.

I watched some of the people find them. Watched their face light up. Watched the shock present itself differently. The children laughed. And sometimes, someone would cry. Emotion overflowing, the same way I felt.

I had given everything away, Jeannie. Everything from our old life together. The furniture, the house. The pages from the book you left for me. And then the money, that had been waiting so long for a purpose.

Some needed it more than others. But for each, it would be a memory. A page in their book. And we did that, Jeannie. We built more memories, together.

Then I sat in a small room.

I had been welcomed into the community and officially moved in. It was a change, everything had changed. And I didn’t live in the middle of the old memories. But, Jeannie, I was wrong. I still felt you with me.

And so I pulled out the remaining pages of the book.

I wanted to do something meaningful with the few that I had left. And I thought of our children. And the friends we had lost touch with so many years ago. I didn’t have the words to say what was in my heart. I didn’t have words to talk about loss, or grief, or to apologize for the ways I changed when I lost you, Jeannie.

But I’d learned something. I learned that anything was better than a blank page, Jeannie, as long as it was true.

And so I wrote something simple. Something that filled up the paper and crossed over the lines. Something in my own terrible handwriting.

I miss you.

I love you.

And to the children, almost as an afterthought. But something I should have said so much sooner. Your mother loved you, very much. You couldn’t remind them, but I could.

I wrapped them up in envelopes. Strange little pieces of paper that they were. And I delivered them. Let them make their mark upon the world. Even if there never was a reply, at least I had said the words. That was enough..

I was left with a strange, empty book. Your name on the cover page, in your own hand.

I displayed the empty pages proudly. You had probably thought they were too pretty to write in. But now that we knew better, we had used them for good. Those pages lived like you did, Jeannie. They made the world a better place to live in. They were kind. And they made people smile and laugh like you did. They made me see the world again.

Then a few weeks later. I was taking an early morning walk, around the grounds of the community center. The paths were always immaculately groomed, never a stray overgrown tree branch hanging over. I guess they didn’t trust us old people with anything to trip over or run into. My balance and eyesight was bad enough. It was a cold morning, but my heart was beating fast. I found a bench to rest on.

And Jeannie, that’s when I saw the girl who looked like you. Dark curls falling down her back. She was walking through the grounds, like she was looking for someone. Like it was you, looking for me. I called out to you, Jeannie.

And as the girl turned, I saw that I was wrong. I was wrong but I was right. She was just the splitting image of you, Jeannie. It was our Annabelle. And as she turned and walked my way, I saw she had a letter in her hand.

A letter from a page of that book from all those years ago. A letter that brought our girl back into our lives. A page that once stayed empty, that we filled with those simple words.

I miss you.

I love you.