Use it well. When done, pass it on.

As I looked over the bookshelf my sight aligned with a single green shape. I got up and pulled the book by the top of its spine. It had a familiar shape and feel. The outer martial was soft and rough at the same time. I brushed my hand across the cover, as to wipe of dust from its face. The book read: A Field Guide to Rocks and Minerals.

I pulled back the cover and heard the creak of its spine. Behind it was a full map of North America and a legend to the bottom right showing rock formations of the area as shaded lines or dots. Above and off to the right, in the Atlantic Ocean, was a note written neatly in cursive.

“To Dusty - Here’s to some great finds. Love, Jen”

I look over the map a few more times, then back to the writing. That’s when I turn the page to the cover sheet. Below the title sat another note, this one I knew. The author was a woman I once cared for, who disappeared years ago. Her writing was unique. The letter N was long and oddly spaced and the hoops of her R’s wrapped wide against its supporting line. It’s funny how something as simple as hand written note can bring you back.

“To Jacob, Use this on any adventure, weather it be climbing Mount Everest or in your backyard. This book is sure to yield good information. It’s an old book. Use it well. When done, pass it on. - Natasha”

I stood looking at the text for some time, not really looking at it, just staring. I tired for the life of me to remember her face. Bringing back the features, assembling something I could recognize. All those small details that I remember as random points of our past. Legs, eyes, that wonderful smile of hers. I was reminded of the night she drank too much and I looked after her from a distance. The nights when we drove around town with nothing to do. She would fiddle with the radio stations, looking for something, anything fitting the mood of the night. She always did. I was reminded of the time we spent on the swings of the park. Just looking up at the sky. The stars seemed so bright back then, the nights seemed endless. We often talked about leaving that desert town, bound for something far greater than what we could imagine. She left shortly after that, bound for San Francisco.

I gently close the book and place it back onto the shelf. A book that blends in so effortlessly, anyone without a direct connection would pass it up. Sometimes I wonder, does she think about that day, when she wrote those words so permanently across the page. Does she remember the act, or am I just desperately clinging onto nothing. I never told her, but that book was one of the most important gifts I ever received.

Submitted by jacobmooty.