Sunshine From The Past 6: Notebook

I remember gripping my brown notebook tight, and I remember the soft yellow glow of the staff room.

I remember the soft whirr of the air-con, and I remember no one else around. Quiet, silence all about - a dying Friday afternoon.

And as I flipped through the pages, the memories of the past months leapt out at me. From the first few 'test' entries, detailing superficial likes and dislikes, to the middle months, when I discovered she and I had a meeting of minds of sorts, to the last few days, when it seemed I was rushing, every day, to write before it was too late.

I never wrote so much before, revealed so much before. A soul laid bare, ensconced within that notebook of mine.

It was the same routine always. A thought would flit across my consciousness, and I would snare it and pin it in my notebook, like a collector does butterflies. I would pass it to her, and amazingly, she would somehow see the same butterfly as I, complete in its image, and she would reply.

Reply in that beautiful script of hers, her own little thoughts and feelings, her own reflections and dreams. Electric words that would make me ponder, or laugh, or wonder.

A few times each week I would come here alone, and place my notebook in her pigeonhole. It would disappear, then reappear, sometimes a few days later, sometimes the day itself. Everytime it came back to me, I would sense for a moment that it was somehow alive, with our thoughts, our writings.

That day was my last trip. She would be leaving the next week, moving on to greener pastures. I reached the last page, a blank page, and there I wrote:

"I know we both thought your previous reply would be the last in this journal. But I thought about it, and I would like you to have this book. It probably wouldn't mean much to you, this collection of ramblings between us, but all the same I would like you to have it. "

"All the best, till we meet again."

And as bravely as I could, I placed it in her pigeonhole, and left.

I never saw her again.