Verity

Her own audible sigh is the only human voice she is used to hearing anymore outside of her office building. Anne is lonely. As she unpacks yet another box this thought hits her like finally remembering the word that is on the tip of your tongue. “I’m lonely.” She says out loud. She is not sure how this thought actually makes her feel. It is true, but what else is it? Sad, annoying, empty? 'Well, this is getting dark,' she thinks as she dumps the pile in her hands back into the box she is working on and gets up to make some tea.

Walking to the kitchen Anne trips over a box she doesn’t recognize, and the contents spill out. “Ouch.” She says as she reaches down and picks up one of, about, ten little black books, tilting the rest back into the box. Rolling her eyes at the inconvenience and tinge of pain in her toe, she sets the book down on the coffee table next to her armchair. Anne proceeds to the kitchen and her much needed cup of tea. Once she has added the right amount of sugar and milk, she heads back toward the one available piece of furniture, her armchair, and gets comfortable.

Looking around the living room she sees the work left ahead of her and starts to wonder what it might be like to have a friend that could help her unpack, maybe a boyfriend… some family even… She is sort of grateful she has work tomorrow so she can put off the unpacking. Of course, she can’t call in sick because she needs this job to pay the bills. If only she could afford to leave her career and pursue her passion, maybe then things would be different, better. Shaking her head to ward off the inevitable spiral of this line of thought, she reaches for the black book on the coffee table next to her. Anne has no idea where this box came from, she figures it must have been left by its owner in the moving truck she used. She gently fans through the pages. Stopping at random, she finds herself tracing her finger over the stranger’s writing. There is something so comforting about the slight indentation made by pressing pen to paper. It feels oddly personal to be looking at some unknown persons handwritten thoughts that she hesitates, slightly, before flipping back to the front to begin reading. On the top right corner of the flyleaf there is a name, Verity.

Hardly three sentences in she splutters on her tea and almost drops the cup. She reads it again and sure enough, it says: These journals are a path to $20,000. A few thoughts run through her head in quick succession. First, there is no way this tattered box and these well used black journals are really going to lead her to $20,000. Next, is someone messing with her? Is this someone’s idea of a practical joke or a pathetic reach for attention? Finally, is she so bored and desperate and broke that she is actually going to keep reading? -Yes, she is. “Alright Verity well played. Let’s see what this is all about.” She says and she dives in.

Verity is, by her own definition, old. And it really doesn’t matter how old because, as she puts it: At some point, you become old and at the same time, you become invisible. You cease to be a person that other people notice and acknowledge, and you start to become a slow-moving creature that people hold doors open for. 50/50 chance they sigh as they wait there longer than they bargained for. -Apparently, Verity used to make bets with her husband, just a light tap on the center of his palm with her middle finger meant she bets the young man sighs as they mosey toward the doorway he is securing for them. She was only wrong once.

Anne read through the afternoon and into the night surprising herself with how invested she had become. Verity lived a fascinating life. She met a man that she fell madly in love with, they traveled the world together and apart. They had children, they had businesses, they had adventures, at times they had chaos, other times they had peace and quiet. Some of it seemed extraordinary but most of it felt completely… normal. It wasn’t the things Verity did that made Anne fly through the journals until she had to dig out a lamp to read by. It wasn’t even the promise of $20,000 which, by this point seemed very real. Something about the curvy, slightly left-slanting writing (her own handwriting slants right) spilling through the pages, was changing Anne’s heart. As she read through Verity’s life story, Anne learned about her losses, this once unknown woman’s joy and bravery, fear and pain spelled out in great detail. She had lost a great love, friends, parents… she lost jobs, careers, herself. Every time Verity lost something, or someone, Anne thought sadness would overwhelm her. But it never did.

Verity felt things, deeply. But each time she felt one of these deep losses, Verity wrote her way through it. She let the rushes of emotions come over her and she dealt with them head on. Each time she went through something, another great adventure made itself available and Verity had the space to say, -Yes. And mean it. The pain would still show up from time to time, what Anne found so amazing was that Verity did not push it away or ignore it. She greeted it, wrote through it, took time in whatever she had going on in the moment to make space for her grief. On the other side of that, she made time to celebrate her joys, even amid a storm. Verity was so alive. She was in tune with what really mattered, what she really wanted. And exactly what it meant to be a human being.

Anne checked the time, it was somehow only 10:30pm. Not too late to pick up one more journal before calling it a night. She knew she was very near the end, there were only 4 or 5 journals left but even so, she wasn’t sure what might be left. The last journal had left off with Verity detailing her current weekday morning routine (daily coffee with her journals at a local coffee shop Perk Up) and how she thought being a grandmother was truly one of life’s last great adventures, awarded to the oldest generation of any given era to really prove that, it’s not so bad here. Anne opened the last book and saw that it was blank but for the first page. This was the last note from Verity, it said:

Thank you,

If you made it this far, thank you for indulging an old lady and honoring my story. I promised you a path to $20,000 and I am nothing if not honest. In the next journal you will find the sum enclosed.

I have very little use for this money in what I am sure are my last days of life. My family will be well taken care of and need little help anyway. If this money can serve you, I hope you will use it well. Otherwise, maybe you know where it should go. Either way, it is yours now.

We are strangers but you’ve given me your time and let me into your heart. I am grateful for that opportunity. Be Well.

All my Love,

Verity

Sure enough, wrapped in paper glued to the spine of a mostly hollowed out black book were two-hundred $100 bills. $20,000.

And now, it was time for Anne to sleep.

The next morning Anne woke up thinking for a second the journals had been a dream. The kind of dream where you are swimming in a pit of money, stuffing your pockets full only to wake up with nothing to show. She rubbed her eyes and rolled out of the armchair (she never got around to setting up her bed with all the reading) and there on her coffee table were two black books. One opened to Verity’s letter, the other, full of cash.

Anne was surprised to realize she did not need to think about what to do. It was like she knew all along that the money would be there and that, as much as she wanted to when she first read those words, she could not keep it. She quickly got herself showered and ready, thankful for the few clean clothes and toiletries she still had in the suitcase she’d been living out of the last few days. She packed up the box with all the little black books back in order and headed for her car. She drove around for a little while until inspiration hit. She turned the car around and headed back towards town, stopping at an old brick house on her way. The yard was spilling with kids toys and broken-down cars. A colleague she had always liked who had recently been let go due to downsizing lived here. It looked like she was out so the timing was perfect. Anne grabbed the box and walked it up to the front porch, leaving it there. She got back in her car and drove back into town. She parked in the half empty lot of Perk Up. One blank little black book in hand she went inside, ordered a tea, and sat at a table by the window. She began to write.