I read our story in a book yesterday,

found it in an old bookstore,

that smelled,

like your feet – not the book itself,

but the store. The book smelled of vanilla,

an odd mustiness, that only comes with age

and marination – like

the seashell you found

that day we sailed

away,

held it to your ear,

and heard such secrets,

old words,

glue, paper, ink, fibers,

the smells unravel,

long walks with the dog, days sick in bed,

the flowers we planted, the cookies and tea.

This book read like the Bible, right before judgement falls,

the pages rolled back,

 like the sun

across our wooden deck,

battered and worn,

marked up counting kids,

chasing butterflies,

catching frogs.

It ends like the

the beginning,

adrift on the waves,

rocked back and forth

we managed to sleep.