The worn pages stir intermittently in the air around them,
the breeze catching their corners and pulling them open.
They hold fast to the frayed and old binding, refusing to let go.
They are thin and yellowed with age.
The paper is frail and edges becoming friable, yet the print is bold – defiant,
not to be silenced. A small light in the darkest of corners.
From across the miles of years the print refuses to be forgotten.
Speaking loudly of ages gone by. People lost – taking with them the pieces of a life.
Love requited yet now absent. Experiences vast yet so small.
Reaching out and touching oh so carefully the past and begging it to the present.
Pulling it forward through space and time. Touching it. Breathing it. Holding it. Owning it.
But all too soon the pages will be torn from their haven and the breeze will carry them off.
They will be lost to time. A story of life. A story of loss. A story of love.