The study had always been her favorite room in the apartment, with the bright light from the window and the view of wildflower fields. The desk had been littered with knick knacks, paper weights, and a large vining Pothos plant. Three floor-to-ceiling bookshelves used to stand, heaving under the weight of her collection. Now in repurposed Amazon boxes were the old hardbound classics. Lesley had gone to college and majored in British Literature, but her collection had just as many Nicholas Sparks novels as it did Shakespeare. Skye picked up one that she knew had been one of grandma’s favorite books, Jane Eyre, and opened the dusty cover. A piece of paper fell out and landed on the wood floor. She scooped it up and began to squint to make out the handwriting. It was something her grandma had written.
“I am sitting in my car at the perimeter of the property of the apartment complex I live in. Having coffee and smoking my one cigarette of the day. I live in a non-smoking complex, which I was not told until after the papers were signed and the moving truck was on its way with my belongings.” Skye knew her grandma liked to write, but she had only ever shared a few pieces. This felt too personal, like she was reading a diary. Skye debated about putting it back into the book, but the thought of someone else buying the book and finding the writing felt even more invasive. She began yanking the other books out of the boxes and shaking them. About thirty minutes later she had checked the entire collection of books, leaving them haloed around her on the floor and producing twenty-three more writings. Most were on random scraps of paper like bank statements, old accounting sheets, receipts and grocery lists. It was as if inspiration had struck Lesley so forcefully she didn’t have time to grab a notebook. Some of the writings seemed autobiographical, like Skye was sitting on her grandma’s lap hearing about the “good old days.” Others were poems, both serious and funny. Then there were letters addressed to people she didn’t know. One, that included an address, caught Skye’s attention.
“Dear. Mr. Litgow, This letter is to thank you but please read on because it’s also a personal tribute from a “would-be writer.” When I say I would be, I mean I never was good enough to write professionally, but in my soul I was a writer since the day I was born — and I still am. For those who make it, I pray their words will be perfect. I hope you enjoy this novel, though I know it won’t be seen by others. Lesley 33 West Washington Park Square New York, New York
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