Slipped Through the Cracks

Slipped Through the Cracks

I didn’t think much of it at first.

There is a stone wall beside my small table where I sit to write in the mornings. Wisteria vines have forced cracks in the mortar, letting in fingers of light to fall across my pages. The barista, Celeste, brings me coffee and a cinnamon bun every day, a dance of familiarity we’ve done for years now.

The light was different today somehow. I noticed the larger of the spaces between stones was closed off, probably the doings of a squirrel tucking away some treasure. Pushing my finger into the crack, I felt the stiff, smooth presence of paper. A small scroll. Using my pen, I slipped the missive out so that it dropped onto the table.

I sipped some coffee and stared at the curl of parchment, feeling both curious and a bit intruded upon, though I had no way of knowing if this message was meant for me. Curiosity won out. I unfurled it.

Give me three reasons why I should keep living.

That was it. I looked around me, wondering if the author was nearby, and why they would think I, a stranger, would have their answers. The few patrons were the same ones I saw every day. None looked to be on the verge of departing this mortal plane. Perhaps this person was on the outside, looking in-as many people are, I thought.

Considering what I would offer, I took a page from my journal and began to respond.

Do you see that towering cedar across the way? It has witnessed our small lives for perhaps two hundred or more years. If asked, it would say, “Yes, that happened and then this happened and still, the world moves about without much change. But the sky is always there to reach for, and the rain always comes, sooner or later. What else do you need?”

There is a river of words to fill your mind with the workings of your heart, more than enough to coax reason from chaos. Perhaps the only words you need are these. I hear you.

And a third. Well, there are more colors in the world than we can see, a miracle of light, of vibrant beauty that would be lost if you were to close your eyes for eternity.

Does this help?

I carefully curled the paper into a similar scroll and tucked it between the stones. Returning to the novel that had been holding my sleep hostage, I gave myself over to the muse until the sun announced it was time to return to the realities of daily life.

The following morning, Celeste and I resumed our ritual of coffee and cinnamon. I glanced at the wall to see if my message had done its duty, and I would be free to resume my writing. Sadly, no. Another page, a different color from my own, perched closer to the inside of the wall, insistently beckoning.

These are not enough.

Good Lord, I thought. Am I supposed to tell this person the purpose of their being? Sigh.

Have you seen the way Celeste looks her customers in the eye, always remembering their names? She knows that many begin their days already weary before they come here and offers them cups of comfort, not merely coffee. She sees this as her purpose, and it is a greater one than she knows.

On the corner is Leonardo’s music store. He sells used instruments to students who could otherwise not afford them. At five-o’clock every day he closes his door, turns the sign to closed, and sits at that ancient piano in the window. Despite the flat A and C keys, he plays Brahm’s lullabies so sweetly they will make you weep for your mother’s arms. That is his purpose.

Every morning, the man in slippers and an old fedora sweeps the sidewalks and all the doorways of businesses along the street. Not for the change that merchants drop into his hand, but because this is how he gives a small corner of the world some semblance of order. For him, that as his purpose.

Find yours.

Again, I rolled the paper and slipped it into our secret spot.

This continued through the week, the writer on the outside wanting answers, me searching for the right words to give them hope.

Finally, exasperated at the disruption in my routine and the seemingly endless needs of this person, I penned a final note.

For Heaven’s Sakes!

I don’t know why you chose me to give you a reason for your existence. All I have left to say is, Why Not Live?

Today the wisteria blooms are fragrant and full of honey bees.

The sun is warm on my back and the sky is a deep, cloudless blue.

Celeste has promised that tomorrow she will bring pies she’s baked from the fruit in her own garden.

These things are enough for me. I don’t know what is enough for you. Please do not ask me anymore.

I was agitated as I dressed the next day, and slightly furious that the haven which had been my home for writing was now tainted. I went anyway, refusing to relinquish what had been my territory for so long.

Settling into my seat, I refused to look toward the place where the exchange between myself and the stranger had occurred. Until I noticed the slim slip of light falling on my notebook. I should have felt relief. Instead, I wondered if I had been too harsh, if I had failed to convince another soul to remain in the world.

My coffee arrived and with it, a generous piece of berry pie was placed before me. But it was not Celeste’s slender hand placing it there. I looked up into the face of a young man, who set his own pie and coffee on the table and sat across from me. We locked eyes for a moment. Then, he smiled and we lifted our cups in a toast before we delved into the sweet, succulent taste of summer.