Thin Air

The day started out just like most weekdays. I got dressed, had breakfast, grabbed my backpack and headed out the door. I took my usual route to the streetcar, walking briskly around Lafayette Cemetery No.1 and past the park benches where I would always see the woman I refer to as the “friendly park bench lady.” For the past two years I’ve seen her on my morning commute, sitting on the same bench, in the same spot, writing in her same little black book. I would always nod and say hello, and she would always reward me with a friendly wave and a delightful smile. This morning however, I was surprised to find her missing from my morning routine. Staring for a moment at her usual spot, I noticed that she had left her familiar black book there on the bench. I quickly scanned the area to try and locate her, but she was nowhere to be found. For her to have forgotten her precious book seemed unlikely and made me feel quite strange. I made a split-second decision to grab it and keep it in my backpack until I could return it safely to her.

I stood at my streetcar stop, thinking of her and her book. Although she was nearly a stranger to me, I still had a peculiar sense of responsibility and concern. I also had a feeling of being watched, and even though I had good intentions, I still felt a little guilty about taking something that wasn’t mine. I boarded the streetcar, found my seat and as we rumbled down St. Charles, I opened the cover to find in very neat penmanship the name Francesca Sebregondi, 1448 Fourth Street, New Orleans, LA. I didn’t read any further, because I felt like I was invading her privacy. The address was not very far from the cemetery, so I decided that I would stop by on my way home to return the book to its rightful owner.

Throughout the day my thoughts kept wandering back to my missing acquaintance. As I started my journey home, I eagerly headed directly to her address. As I turned onto Fourth street, there it was, 1448, a lovely 1860s Italianate home on a sizeable corner lot. Taking a deep breath, I opened the squeaky cast iron cornstalk gate and made my way up the steps to the front door. I rang the doorbell and waited anxiously for someone to answer. I heard the deadbolt click and one side of the huge double doors slowly opened. I was surprised to see a younger woman’s face pop out and say, “can I help you?” I said in a very unsure voice, “Yes, ma’am. I’m uhhh, I’m looking for a Francesa Sebregondi?” The woman’s face wilted as she quietly said, “Oh my, yes, she used to own this home, but I’m sorry to tell you, she passed away about two years ago.” I’m sure I looked like I had seen a ghost, because at that very moment, I wondered if that’s exactly what Ms. Sebregondi was. I apologized and thanked the woman for her time, heading back down the stairs in a daze. There I was on the sidewalk looking up at a strange, but beautiful house, holding a book that was left behind by a supposedly dead woman. I continued my way home feeling completely bewildered and struggling to make sense of it all.

It was an incredibly long and sleepless night. My mind raced and as hard as I tried, I couldn’t switch it off. I kept replaying my trip to the house over and over again. I watched the sun slowly rise and peek through the blinds across my sheets. I was completely exhausted, but I managed to peel myself out of bed and shuffle into the bathroom. As I went through my morning routine, I had every hope that there was some mix-up and I would find Ms. Sebregondi sitting on her park bench this morning. I grabbed my backpack and rushed out the door. I walked past the cemetery and towards her usual morning spot, with my stomach feeling like it was in knots. As the park bench came into view, I could see that it was empty. My heart sank, and in that moment, I had to question her existence in life or death.

I was in my head all day. When I got home, I had a small bite to eat and tried to relax and silence my mind for a few minutes. I took out my laptop and searched for anything I could find on a Francesca Sebregondi. The first thing that popped up was an obituary. As I clicked the listing, there it was, a picture of her which looked like it had been taken yesterday. The obituary read, “Francesca Sebregondi was born August 15, 1935 in Milan, Italy.” It went on to say that she died in her home two years ago here in New Orleans and was buried at the Lafayette Cemetery No. 1. No information was provided about surviving relatives and the only additional text included was a line that read, “Francesa Sebregondi was a visionary and creator of all things.” Chills went down my spine and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. What was that supposed to mean? What a strange way to describe someone’s life and accomplishments. I went numb all over as the realization finally set in that Ms. Sebregondi had died right around the same time that I had started seeing her on my daily commute.

The next day I made my way to the cemetery and after much searching, I finally found her tomb. I stood at her grave and thought about her life, and even though I really didn’t know her, I missed seeing her face every day. I pulled the little black book out of my backpack and sat there wondering if I should leave it here or if I should have left it on the bench where I found it. Struggling to come to a decision, I opened the book again to try and search for answers. The first page opposite her name contained a poem that read:

“Whoever holds this little black book, has the special key.

Whatever you wish to bring to life, write inside and see.

Creation lies within your soul, with love the special spark,

Put pen to paper carefully, then go and make your mark.”

Reading the message made me freeze like a deer in headlights and I wasn’t quite sure what to make of its meaning. As I continued, I started to recognize sketches of people and places around town. One by one, each page I turned contained beautiful hand drawn pictures, as well as writing, notes and various thoughts. There was a sketch of her beautiful home, journal entries about how she would help other people and the things that she wanted to do to improve her community. There were stories of her travels and places she loved discovering, and of all the amazing people she had met along the way. In some small way, I felt I was a part of her life after reading and daydreaming through the pages. As I turned to the next page, I quickly snapped out of my reverie to find what looked to be a sketch of me. There was no mistake about it, it was a drawing of me with my familiar backpack, walking past where she sat every day. On the bench in the drawing was her little black book placed right where she used to sit. Written under the drawing in her careful handwriting was another entry:

“You were chosen to find this book, your kindness rings so true.

And when you’re finished pass it on, to someone just like you.

If ever you should doubt it’s might, test it and you’ll find,

from heart to pen, the things you seek, are all a state of mind.”

I was completely floored. In a split second everything became very clear and I realized what the message in the front of the book really meant. Everything that she created or visualized in her mind was brought to life by writing it down in this book and giving it her intention. It was overwhelming, but I knew then, I was keeping the book. After paying my final respects, I headed home.

That evening I laid down on the floor with the book on my chest and with my eyes closed, I carefully considered everything I had learned. Finally, I decided I wanted to try creating something myself, so I went back over her existing notes to look for inspiration. One of the last things she had written about was the happiness she received from hearing the joy and laughter from the children at a school near her home. She wanted to update the school’s play area with a tree house, swings, sliding boards and climbing walls. I thought that if I could help her achieve one of her last goals, it would be a great way for me to honor her and find out if the book really worked. I began to draw, inspired by her words and created a plan for a new playground. I imagined the smile on her face and felt the love she would have, knowing that these children had a new place to laugh and play. It made me think about all of things that I wanted to create in my life. I drew a beautiful image of my parents living in their dream home and I wrote down ideas for trips that I wanted to take with my friends. I wrote about rundown areas of New Orleans and reimagined what they could be like with some investment and care. I wrote all of these things, straight from my heart, with a strong wish for all of them to come true.

A couple weeks later, I was pushing a piece of paper into the built-in pocket in the back cover. Inside, tucked away, I discovered a small key and a card taped inside. The card contained the address of a local bank and a number for a safety deposit box. There were very specific instructions to follow and I soon found myself sitting at a table in the bank staring at a heavy metal box. As I slowly lifted the lid, the strange feeling of being watched came over me again. Inside was a large envelope and written on the outside was the message, “You are a powerful creator.” When I opened the envelope, I couldn’t believe my eyes, there were two wrapped stacks of one hundred dollar bills totaling $20,000! The amount was immediately obvious to me. In fact, I had written that exact number next to the plans I had created for the playground. In that moment, I realized the poem was true - I had manifested my desire by putting my heart’s intentions into the book. I walked out of the bank with tears in my eyes and a renewed sense of purpose.

Over the coming months, other dreams materialized as well. I started creating all sorts of things that changed my life and enriched the lives of those around me. With clear intentions and creativity, I continued to give and receive. In the end, whether living or dead, Francesca Sebregondi had seen something in me that I wasn’t able to see in myself – that like her, I had the ability to create my own destiny.

Now that I am a little older, I sometimes walk down by the cemetery and sit on the bench where she used to sit. I like to spend my time writing down my wishes, sketching out my ideas and creating my wildest dreams. And as instructed, I always keep my eyes open for the next person to carry the little black book.