A Prose Poem
For the last year she had been scrabbling around in the book of her life trying to find her place. It wasn’t until the day after the first anniversary of his death that she realized she has lost her bookmark. As bookmarks go he was one of a kind, soft Venetian leather, hand tooled with an artisan’s skill, engraved with gold leaf that sparkled in the bright light of day and the softer glow of evening. He nestled in the pages of her life. Sometimes in her impatience, she would want to skip pages, or read them quickly without full comprehension, but when she picked the bookmark up to mark her new place she would feel a resistance, a gentle yet firm insistence that she go back and reread. Impetuous, in a hurry to understand everything, she would ask multiple questions without realizing that answers could be a long time coming, and that for some questions there would be no answers. When a chapter was sad, so sad that it was painful to read, she would clasp the gently aged, subtly weathered bookmark, and feel a warmth and strength penetrate her hands, rise up her arms, then descend into her aching centre. As the years passed she placed the bookmark between pages he was not comfortable with, pages full of passion and deep inner truths, she would read aloud as the bookmark rested on her lap. Over time she noticed the leather developed a delicate density, and she came to know that each brought their own dimension to a vibrant, well written story.