Book of Love (43 page)

After deciding everything was in order, I
sat on my bed and pulled one of my bags toward me. From inside I
grabbed a small stack of moleskin journals and placed them on the
shelf above my bed. I had began documenting my life the day I was
able to write, a craft that soothed me. The simple act of getting
my feelings down on paper was cathartic, keeping my soul open for
happiness to come in, though it never did.

Deep in the bag, nestled between my clothes,
I found the framed note from my real mother. It was the only thing
I had from her. I flicked on the bedside lamp so that I could see
it more clearly. The beautiful script and rough edges played at my
emotions, and every day I read it in anticipation:

Estella,

You are beautiful, and it pains me to leave,
but some day you will find the beauty you seek living inside your
darkest soul. You are safe now.

The poetic words puzzled and saddened me. I
had searched for her when I was younger, but found nothing about
her or where she’d gone or even if she was dead or alive. And so my
soul remained black.

Placing the frame on the wooden side table,
I reached back into my bag and pulled a small, tattered brown box
from its depths, treating it with extreme care. Opening it with
caution, I retrieved a small pot containing a tiny purple plant
that was snuggled inside. Grasping it with two hands, I set the
purple clover on the sill and touched its butterfly leaves. It
reacted to the light and stretched its petals toward the sun like
an opening umbrella. I had decided to take just one tubular with me
from my vast garden in Seattle, just one child with whom to start
my new life.

After unpacking the few clothes I had,
leaving some in the bag out of sheer laziness, I finally laid on my
bed, letting my platinum hair fan out around me. After a few
moments of restful silence, I pulled myself back up and reached
into my bag once again, grabbing a book. I leaned back into my
pillow and I began to read as the darkness of the night crept in
around the cabin. Soon, only the light from the bedside lamp shone
dimly across the room, casting eerie shadows against the walls of
the unfamiliar place.

I glanced away from the page to the windows
and realized that the hours had passed faster than I’d expected.
The blackness seemed infinite and my heart began to race anxiously
as the world of my book faded away. I lifted my head off the pillow
and sat up, sliding my legs to the floor. As I approached the
window, I was shocked to see only a few faint lights glimmer from
the campus that surrounded me. I had never experienced anything
like it in my life: profound darkness and quiet, all at once. I
leaned toward my lamp and switched it off, allowing the lights
outside to magnify.

After a moment, I walked to my door and
opened it, walking quietly onto the small deck, not wanting to
disturb nature’s slumber. I squeezed my eyes shut and tilted my
head to the sky, enjoying the tranquility of the night. When I
opened my eyes, I gasped at the tiny diamonds that littered the
sky, sparkling greater than I had ever seen and in far greater
numbers than I could imagine. I had read about the stars, seen
images and studied their matter, but never would I have expected
the sight that welcomed me now. The city lights of Seattle and the
almost constant thick shroud of clouds made star gazing
difficult.

My body and mind felt clear as I stood there
connecting with the night. A light breeze swept playfully through
my hair, gently caressing my face. I could smell pine and sage, and
a feeling I had never experienced before slipped over me:
peace.

For a moment I couldn’t help but feel I
might at last smile, but then the wind subsided and my dark soul
remained empty. As the stars twinkled ever brighter, I realized I
was getting close. There was something out here I needed to see,
something I was meant to do, but what that was, for now, would
continue to elude me.

Learn More About Feather

and the Feather Book Series at

www.FeatherBookSeries.com

www.FeatherBookSeries.Wordpress.com

www.AbraEbner.Blogspot.com