The Little Black Notebook

Based off a writing prompt. "Write a scene about what she found in that notebook next to her"

The Little Black Notebook

 

The bus was late. Again. It was raining. Again. She was sitting on the same wooden bench, holding the same red umbrella, wearing the same deflated look she wore every time she went home only this time, something was occupying the seat next to her. A little notebook. It looked as ordinary as any other notebook you might see in the store. Black covering, metal rings holding the papers together, no markings on the front. She looked to the right, then the left, looking for the owner of the little black notebook but no one was there. And still it sat, looking forlorn and wet. She reached a tentative hand over and picked it up. She flipped open the cover to the first page. There was writing. Messy, rushed, cramped handwriting done in pencil. The first date written up top was labeled as August 16, 1984. And so she read.

 

 

August 16, 1984

 

She is the sky on a clear spring day.

She is fresh snow on the trees on a crisp winter morning.

She is the sun and the moon and the stars and the planets and the galaxies.

She is the smell of flowers, the taste of honey, the sight of butterflies.

She is so perfect I cannot comprehend why she is not in Heaven with God as an Angel.

 

August 19, 1992

 

You are my sun, my moon,

My words, my tune

My earth, my sky, my sea,

You’re everything to me

You’re my light in the darkness

You’re my peace and happiness

My hope, my forever love

 

September 3, 1992

 

I wrote your name in the sky,

But the wind blew it away

 

I wrote your name in the sand,

But the waves washed it away

 

I wrote your name in my heart,

And forever it will stay.

 

September 18, 1975

 

You are

The one

I love with all my migt

The one

I’m thinking of every night

The one

That helps me make things right

The one

I dream of when I sleep at night

The one

I think of when I hug my pillow tight

The one I’m not giving up without a fight

She was crying now, silently, as she sat on the bus seat, reading. She flipped through page after page of love poems, anger poems, sweet poems, light poems, dark poems. Poem after poem after poem, year after year after year. She flipped to the last page where a single poem sat in the middle. The date set it at August 23 of 1954.

 

August 23, 1977

 

Why did you say you cared

You held me close when I was scared

You told me everything would turn out alright

That you would stay with me all through the night

We had a good time, you and I

Until you decided to say goodbye

Now I left with a broken heart and useless memories

Futile hope your t-shirts and cd’s

I couldn’t believe you would run out like this

Without even giving me one last kiss

But death doesn’t care what’s important to me or to you

It had its way and then it’s through

I know that I sound sappy

But I was only just beginning to be happy

Death turned out to be you

But guess what, you killed me, and now you’re through.

 

 

This page was blotched with wrinkly dots. Water damage. From tears, and not hers. She was about to close the book, to be done with the thing that had made her feel so much when another page caught her eye. A page that had been thought to be stuck to the backing. A page with more writing, this time done in pen, newer, the date showing as July 13, 2011

 

July 13, 2011

 

Until you’ve

Counted little fingers

Counted little toes

Held a little hand

Kissed a little nose

Soothed a little tummy

Read to little ears

Powdered a little booty

Wiped away little tears

 

You haven’t known love.

 

Her heart broke, right then. Right in half. She broke down sobbing and laughing as quietly as possible, tears cascading off her face as she hugged the little notebook to her chest. She walked in her door, still crying, still holding the little black notebook. She set her bag on the table, pulled out a sheath of papers, and began ripping them into pieces. Sinking to the ground amidst scraps of paper, she held the little black notebook that had saved her unborn child’s life.

 

 

Author's Note

Done at sometime in the wee hours of the morning, so figure, 2:00 or 3:00 a.m., (I'm a bit of a night owl.) so please excuse the crappy quality. If there are any grammar mistakes, do tell as I hate grammar mistakes. Other than that, enjoy!

-Art