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I would have never even known it was there.
If the waterfall of cascading books in the attic had not revealed all.
It sat in all it’s past glory, full of secrets, yet so humble.
Brown, it’s spine bent, in a cloud of dust, a diary with a yielding lock
I unlocked a life.
I unlocked memories.
I unlocked more than even it’s lock thought it knew.
Dog eared pages folded away the remainders of busy days when there were so many other important things to do.
Brown, crumpled pages, that were mangled in the rush of life.
Amoeba shaped stains that were born while lip smacking recipes were being discovered.
That musty smell that wraps up memories in a warm blanket of reminiscings.
Different coloured inks dipped in myriad emotions of the author.
Scribbles, doodles that dotted many corners full of mental meanderings.
Daily accounts of pockets full and then emptied mercilessly, telling tales of sometimes a king and sometimes a pauper.
How can a bunch of pages be so vocal in the most utter silence?
How can they write the beginning an end of someone’s story, an entire life?
Who are you? Will I meet you some day around the corner of a street?
We might be strangers but I know you so well.
I walked 200 pages of your life, not a soul will I tell.

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