The Found Book:
You pick up a book of poetry on the floor of your study, and you wonder where it came from.
There’s nothing you remember about it. The light tan cover? The title? The author’s name? Nothing. 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 30 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 30 years and you never once opened it. It’s sat on those shelves through storms and deaths, through crises and miracles, and you never once opened it.
And now you do.
And the words are magic.
But only for a second.
You put it back on a shelf.