06-26-13| 12:30 am
My hands close around a small object wrapped in brown parcel paper, now brittle with age. A yellowed seal holds the wrapping in place. I peel back one of the ripped corners just enough to see what is inside.
A stack of the hardbound notebooks my grandmother loved, red and black, from an era before the black and white composition book took root, I suppose. Pristine, and yet the pages are yellowed with age. They carry the musty smell of old books.
I keep them in their wrapper and know that in time, I will fill each one. I am already crying as I think this but I know that a day will come when the yellowed pages and the smell of old books will mean everything to me, when simply opening one of these notebooks and remembering her will mean everything to me.