Old Book

The desiccated book feels lighter than I remember, its leather cover softer, the seventeenth century binding more fragile. The inside cover reveals a name, written with sharpened quill and calligraphic skill, capital letters flaring in black ink. To add my name would desecrate. This can never be mine, I'm just the steward for a generation. In spite of Atlantic travel on wooden ship, and long seasons of silence, its content remains unweakened. Aging pages bend with ease, inviting eyes to sup and linger, taste the unfamiliar, Connect with someone never met, bond to the one speaking to an uncertain future. His words make their impression, influence feelings, change opinions, affect another beyond the grave. Although its body slowly tatters, some pages soiled and torn, the untarnished message awaits the next protector.