An Objects' Story

Sometimes I go through stages of depression.  There are high points, but then there are those moments that also have to come with it.  Sometimes I go through years of not having my pages combed through or even the opening of my cover.  “You don’t know what you got till its gone” I believe that is the line of my existence.  I actually just heard that playing on speakers in the room that I was forgotten in and I pretty much think that it sums up my life.  Or at least I hope it does to others.  But not all of that part about some sort of taxi or a paved parking lot.

My earliest memory is of me surrounded by my siblings.  They all looked exactly like me and we were all lined up on a clean shelf.  I don’t quite remember how I left them but one day I was on my own.  My best years were about 10 years after that.  I used to just go from one home to another before then but I didn’t have the tears and crinkles that I have today.

One of my owners brought me to Paris while on her journeys through Europe.  But being so important to her she left me in a coffee shop on the Champs-Élysées.  I sat there for hours listening to some bad cheesy French ballads.  I started to worry that I would be left there forever.  But then, a man with a rather large backpack and his simple black coffee sat down at the table.  He picked me up examined both of my covers, and started to read.  I am thankful for this man because he read me rather quickly and then introduced me to an amazing thing that I was a part of for years.  He dropped me off at a moving library.  It was set on this sort of truck that traveled all around Europe and people could only have me for a couple of days.  I felt so special.  I was read over and over again.  And one thing I loved most was the people that I met.  There were some that would smile when they picked me up, making me happy enough that I wished I could smile back.  There were others who would take me home having the intention to read me, but I would end up left alone on a bedside table.  But it was okay because a few days later I would be home, on the truck, headed for a new adventure.  I saw all the sites and met tons of  people.  I guess every book has their prime years.  Those were mine.  However some fool forgot to return me and I wound back up in the states on a dusty old bookshelf.  Now I am just a title on display.  But I never will forget my little adventure especially with the stamp on the inside of my cover claiming me as property of the that little truck that I met in Paris.