A Found Book
You pick up a book of poetry off of one of the shelves in your study, and you wonder where it came from.
There’s nothing you remember about it.
The light tan cover?
The author’s name?
Was this author a friend whose name you’ve forgotten? Or did another friend give you the book, telling you to read it because it meant so much or so little to him?
You don’t remember.
You turn to the blurbs on the back and discover the book is 40 years old, and you realize it’s probably been sitting on your bookshelves for that long.
You’ve moved it from one house to another through those 40 years and you never once opened it. It’s sat on those shelves through storms and deaths, through crises and miracles, and you never opened it.
And now you do.
You open it.
And the words are magic.
But only for a second.