Forgotten

The old doorbell chimes as she enters my shop. Her frequent visits are a welcome pleasure that has come to enhance my day and hers. Neatly adorned with classic clothing, her simple perfume whisps me as she walks to the used book section. Not engaging much in conversation, I intuitively know our love of the past connects us.

The used book section strategically placed near numerous antique chairs is her destination. Gently her careworn fingers caress the spine of potential additions to her collection. It is a process repeated around the third day of each month when I am sure money is at its peak in her life. Numerous old library books and donations are obtained by my shop often. I am the only antique dealer willing to give other people's thoughts in written form temporary residence. Honestly, they are not money makers by any means, but their existence is a time capsule that I must give validation and attention.

Like the books, I, too, feel discarded, forgotten, and outdated. And together, we provide company and acknowledgment to each other and our monthly fellow lover of the written word. Greeting her with a warm hello is customary, and she exchanges it politely back to me; upon seeing her, I instantly recall the arrival of a box of books from an estate sale last week. Leaving the front counter, I go to the backroom, bring the box over to the bookshelves, and place them in a vacant space. We gently smile at one another, and I leave her to peruse the new additions.

Again her fingers begin to scan them as if introducing herself; she stops at one in particular and removes it from the shelf with her left hand. Delicately her right-hand joins her left, and she admires her find. Caressing the black cover, she pulls the elastic closure and opens it. An antique blank journal causes her to gasp; she carefully turns the pages with her right index finger. Her amazement is overwhelming. Slowly she guides herself to the nearest chair without her eyes leaving her discovery.

Curious as to what caught her eye, I approach her slowly. As I get closer, she looks at me and sighs. Clutching it to her chest, she rises from her chair and walks to the counter. Following her, I look at the prize and open it to get an idea of the costs. In pencil on the right side of the first page is a 5. It seems fair to me and without any words exchanged, she hands me the money and takes it lovingly in her hands.

The doorbell chimes, thoughts of what importance this black book has for her fill my mind. I approach the storefront window and notice her sitting on the village bench across the street from me. Holding the open black book, she gently flips through it, bows her head, and begins to sob. Her shoulders are shaking. Again she passionately clutches the book to her chest, consumed by her emotions. Quickly she regains herself and walks down the street to another shop. Unable to leave my charge, notions of what took place fill me. Left with my thoughts, I continue another day of dusting, sorting, and tending to the residents of my shop.

I did not see my monthly visitor for quite some time. Again my deliveries of discarded holders of the written word continue to arrive from yet more estate sales. Carrying the new additions to my book section, I dust each one carefully, and to my amazement, I recognize the black book my quiet customer cherished. I open it carefully and see a beautiful font contained on each page. A story of her fond memories and love of her father is eloquently expressed page after page. The connection to her, the book, and her passion for him drew me to tears. As I come to a close to this beautiful dedication, I read these words.

Thank you, dear bookseller, for allowing me to enter your shop freely, without intrusion or judgment. The moments I spent in your shop were more valuable than you will ever know. Your serendipitous actions allowed me to become the writer I always wanted to be. So long ago, my father gifted me a black journal just like the one you sold me. But his untimely death when I was a young child buried my desire to express myself on paper. Your kindness facilitated the most pleasurable time I have experienced in a very long time. I made sure that this precious book came back to you and you alone. Please open the expandable back pocket and accept my gift of thanks.

Puzzled, I peek inside the back pocket and find a certified check made out to my shop, and in the memo section, it said thanks. Falling to my knees, I bow my head in gratitude and sob.