All the Ones I've Never Met Before

It was the perfect day for soup.    

Saturday afternoon was usually an invitation to spend a little extra time in the kitchen in itself, but on this particular Saturday, a cool wind sent a draft through the house, signaling a craving for something piping and warm.  

Miranda sighed, staring down at clumps of crumpled paper illuminated by the evening sun. She wished she could return to dawn’s first light when the day held forth such promise. A budding designer, she longed to give tangible expression to the murmurings effusing on her spirit. “If only I could just – get them – out.” She threw down her pencil and pushed her sketchbook to the side. After a long day, the rousing rumblings of an empty belly finally stirred Miranda to step away and head downstairs.

Stumbling out to the kitchen, the frigid air of an unheated room went straight to her bones. Miranda turned up the heat and tied the large garbage bag of take-out containers next to the back door. “Might as well make a double-batch” she muttered, digging the old cooking pot out of the cupboard and clunking it down on the stove. For years, her dream was to spend lazy weekend days pondering and creating, filling pages of sketchbooks that were not only beautiful but spoke to her in some way. If they spoke to her, maybe somebody somewhere out there would also be moved.    

If only.   

Miranda chopped in a trance; listening to the whirring wind shake the trees and rattle the shutters. New to this wee white house on Station Street, its noisy harmonies still felt unexpectedly strange.

As the bubbling broth toiled, Miranda spotted movement across the lane. An older man with suspenders and a scruffy white beard – her neighbor. She had noticed him puttering around a few times – polishing his classic car or tidying up his yard. He was quiet and mostly kept to himself but as far as neighbors go, he seemed nice. Miranda always thought when she moved out on her own, she would know her neighbors, yet somehow, it rarely happened.   

Ladling half-cooked carrots and potatoes into her bowl, Miranda got a sudden urge to set her dinnerware aside and do something brave. “The brave only feel brave for a moment – if they feel brave at all” Grandpa Jenkins used to say; leading Miranda to secure a container, filling it up to the brim. On top, she wrote,    

“From my table to yours” – Miranda.    

Throwing on her boots and coat, the stiff grass crunched under her feet. She walked up to her neighbor’s back deck, set the soup and note on the small table by the door, clicked the doorbell and ran away. Arriving at her house, she whispered “I’m brave – but I’m not that brave,” as she slipped in the back door.    

Inside, Miranda couldn’t help but look. She peeked out her kitchen window to see her neighbor peering around. As he turned his gaze, Miranda had nowhere to hide. She gently waved at him while he nodded his head and went inside.    

Smiling to herself, Miranda took her dinner upstairs. She had nothing to show for her day other than a simple home-cooked pot of soup. But as she finished her meal, she didn’t know whether her heart was warmed more – by the soup or her courage.    

--   

The pitter-patter of raindrops weaved in and out of her waking dreams. Completely at ease, Miranda was enjoying a book in a glassed-topped cabin in a tropical rainforest; soothed and comforted by the trickling rain – until her alarm went off, hastily ending her balmy reverie. A rainy day was usually quite comforting to her solitary soul except it was Thursday, the day she had hoped to ambitiously pitch a new design to her boss – one she didn’t have quite ready yet. Miranda dressed in a hurry and ran downstairs; grabbing her design bag and apron as she pushed open the back door. Glancing down, a bag rested at her feet. Inside, a note read,   

“Rainy days are good for scones wouldn’t you say?” – Fred    

Miranda’s quiet smile beamed from the inside out. Her street may have been full of strangers but now there was one less.  

His name was Fred.   

--   

The soft light of a cloudy morning filtered through the living room window. Miranda wasn’t one for sleeping in – but a buttery slice of toast and a milky cup of hot chocolate had a unique ability to soothe her tired soul. She sipped in silence, relieved to be in her own space. It had been a long week of traveling – both for a design workshop and two design events, leaving her ready for a quiet repose.  

Wiping her crumby fingers on her denim blouse, Miranda tapped her fingers on her cup and pondered. Her lonely walls were starting to call her by name. She had moved into her charming old house a mere six weeks ago and had yet to personalize it to her liking. Outside, Miranda’s gaze followed the flowing curtains of Fred’s sitting room, showcasing a beautiful oval-topped bookcase and easel. Miranda half-thought about reaching out to him again – she just didn’t know how.  

Taking the last sip out of her mug, Miranda stood up, ready to hang a few prints and unpack some boxes. To her delight, every box released an aromatic concoction of nostalgia and dust, a sneezer’s frenzy. As the house came together, Miranda stumbled upon a small box in the back of the closet she didn’t recognize. Tucked inside, were a set of watercolor pencils, paintbrushes, and three little black notebooks placed neatly at the bottom. She loosely recalled her mother’s neighbor, a retired art teacher, sending over a box of supplies. Delighted by her discovery, Miranda grabbed a pencil. There was something about a notebook with fresh white pages that fluttered her spirit. Encouraged by its clarity; she wrote out a small note, which later found its way to her neighbor’s mat. It read,  

“Found this little black notebook today. May its blank pages be a canvas for you. As a designer, I like to think of each piece I create as a new friend joining me on my creative journey. Here’s to all the ones you’ve never met before.”   

--   

In the following days, Miranda continually checked her door, expecting a note from Fred. But a note didn’t come. First, a week went by; then two. By the third week, Miranda started considering alternate theories of what might have happened. Windstorm. Rogue dog. Old man annoyed by new neighbor.   

One Friday evening, Miranda’s scoffs and sighs filled the icy air. A rough day at work led her to stomp up her driveway and up the back stairs. Pushing in the screen door, she felt something get tangled in between her feet. Feeling around, her hands grazed a little black book. Her emotions froze in curious expectancy. She took the book inside and sat down, warming her hands under her lap.    

If this moment were a song, the interlude would lead into the most beautiful euphony of precision and grace. Miranda held her breath as if walking through a forest of giant sequoias or the grandeur of the Louvre. Every page was stunning. Portraits articulated with the most thoughtful detail. Sceneries with rolling hills and livestock dotting the landscape.   One picture profoundly spoke to Miranda’s soul – an abstract depiction of poppies and cosmos blowing in the wind.     

She was at a loss for words. Such magnificent art – given freely? She felt like she owed Fred the sun, moon, and stars. How could she ever thank him?

Noticing one of the remaining little black books on the counter, Miranda picked it up and inscribed,   

“Fred. I’m amazed. Your art is inspiring. I’m truly touched that you would share it with me. I will treasure it always.”   

She left the little black book on her purse to drop off in the morning. Tonight, she had a sudden desire to dig out her sketch pens.   

--   

Over the next few days, Miranda worked on several designs that were perhaps her favorite yet. Airy, ethereal, and cheerfully bright, she thought she might pick one and make a scaled-down version for Fred. The new little black book was becoming a telephone of sorts; Miranda would leave a note for Fred in the morning, and he would return it the next day. They chatted back and forth like two friends over tea; about Fred’s deep love of classic cars and how Miranda was saving up to start her own business. One day, the little black book posed a question that perplexed Miranda in a surprising way.   

“Why flowers?”   

Why flowers. Why did she pursue a career in floral design anyway? Her thoughts and recollections sent her on a trail of breadcrumbs until she arrived at a memory she had as a young girl. She was in a flower shop feeling sad, lost and unknown in the world until a stranger walked up and passed her a bouquet of flowers. She told Fred,

“Flowers have a way of speaking hope, that stir and awaken the soul. If I can find a way to bring hope to the world, I think that shall be a life well-lived.”

“I think that’s grand Miranda. Hope never gets old,” Fred said.

--   

As the notebook filled with months of conversation, Miranda prepared for a three-and-a-half-week excursion abroad, designing large-scale floral arrangements for a flower show in London. Just before she left, she tucked a new notebook on Fred’s doorstep, stating,

“For when I get back.”

When Miranda did return, three weeks later; Fred’s car was gone. She was so excited to give him an English scone mix she went straight to his house – and was confused by a locked box on the back door. Arriving home, there was a note on her door with a phone number to call. Fred’s lawyer. Miranda felt a terrible pit in the bottom of her stomach but called the number. Her dear friend Fred had passed. Miranda mournfully agreed to meet with his lawyer later in the week.

--

When the lawyer arrived, he handed Miranda a manila envelope. Her last note from Fred. She didn’t know if she was ready, but she bravely read on,

“Dear Miranda,

Before I met you, I prayed and prayed that I would find someone who shared the same love for my baby – my ol’ 1970 classic. She’s a beauty, a real dream. I wanted to find someone to give the car to, you know, for free. My legacy. My lawyer did find someone, a lover of Lincoln’s. Yet, I have to say, what I needed most in this season was a friend. You were shy, much like me, and through our notes and exchanges, we found a way to be friends. It has been so meaningful to me. The world can be lonely and scary, and many people out there are in need of a friend. In the end, I decided to sell my car. I am leaving you with what it’s worth -- $20,000. I believe you can do this – bring hope to people who need it. It is vitally important. All the best to you Miranda. Your friend, Fred.”   

Tears dripped from Miranda’s eyes. His kind words touched a core in her she didn’t know existed. She wished so deeply that she could thank him – for his friendship and generosity. The money would help start her business – but nothing could compare to the encouragement of someone believing in her and championing her cause.  

Setting down the note, Miranda felt something hard at the bottom of the envelope. She had a distinct feeling she knew what this was and decided to save it.  Soon there would be a rainy day where she would wholeheartedly enjoy its contents over scones, and a chocolatey toast to her friend, Fred.