When the Past Meets The Future

Every year, it’s the same thing. Friends gather around, clinking a vibrant glass of champagne, smiling together at the prospect of a newer, better future. Couples kiss, siblings hug, dogs bark. You really feel the magic in the air. That is; unless you’re me. 

Since I was 12, New Year’s has been nothing to write home about. My parents hate the holiday, and they run to go to bed at 9 every year, just to ensure that they miss the ball drop. It’s a form of protest. I don’t know when they started hating the holiday, but I do thank them for making me hate it too. Just kidding, I really don’t. 

Each year I sit in my room, watch the ball drop on my ratty old computer, and pray to the stars for a wish of a better year. A year where I don’t feel so hollow or lonely. A year where life teaches me something that could bring me genuine happiness. 

Now, don’t get me wrong. I am not this miserable sadsack you see at the start of every good romance movie. I am a successful University student, trying to pave my way in life. However, I am not only an only child, but I also have no cousins because my parents hate them too. 

It became a tradition of mine since I was about 16, to go to my favourite bookstore on New Years Day. It’s called the Bookshelf, and it is the most perfect space you can ever imagine. Stuck between two big grocery stores, the little Bookshelf has everything to make a great store. It had rows upon rows of beautiful books, from beaten up paperbacks to the most remarkable spines of books that date back hundreds of years. It even has that perfect old musty smell that really ties together the beauty of a bookstore. 

It became my tradition to visit here after I discovered it is the only place open on New Year’s Day. The man who owns the store has a lot of free time, I guess. 

My tradition is as follows: I go to the self-help portion of the store. I scan the books, looking for the most promising of them all, with the biggest goofy colours and positive role model on the outside. Then I take it home, read the book, feel motivated for about 45 minutes, and then roll back into my depressing emotional state. 

Today it’s a cool day, with a slight breeze, and dark clouds threatening to snow. Something about this kind of day really soothes me. It brings the atmosphere that I don’t always have to be incredibly happy in order to live like a normal person. Social media will tell you otherwise, however. 

I walk into the store, take a deep breath, and savour the sweet smell of old books. My favourite about my self-help section is that it’s at the back of the store, where nobody else goes. That makes it the most satisfying because I don’t need any confrontation. 

Continuing my journey, I finally reach the shelf. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, ready to shop and explore the section all alone for as long as I please. 

Then I open them. 

And I’m not alone in the section. 

Oh, no. 

Standing in front of me is an old man, squinting at the bookshelves, searching for who knows what. I stand there awestruck and annoyed that someone would dare interfere with my special spot. 

He stands before me, sharply dressed in a suit. He has a beautiful cane, shaped like an exotic bird, the wings spiralling their way up the cane, with a striking face on top, looking ready for flight. He wears a bowler hat and has combed his hair with a curl to the right. He is a perfect depiction of a man from 1945, save for the fact he looks to be about 80.

He eventually catches me staring, and turns and gives a polite nod. I decide to not be rude and continue my tradition, looking around for books. 

The angst of someone else being in my space drives me crazy. Why would he even want a self-help book? What could that possibly do for someone of that age?

I pick up a bright yellow book, with a beaming young girl on the front. She smiles brightly and welcomes you into her book, ready to tell you all her tips on how to live life the right way.  I decide that this is the book I want when I hear the man next to me clear his throat. 

“Hello, miss. I’m terribly sorry to bother you, but do you intend on purchasing that book in your hand?” 

I stare at him for a moment, realized I haven’t actually spoken to anyone in over a week. 

“Um,” I say ever so elegantly, “How come?”

He looks at the floor for a second, almost sheepish. I feel guilty for being so questioning, but before I can say more he cuts in. 

“Well, that is my daughter on the front of that book. I have been searching for a copy for a long time, but I can’t find one anywhere.” 

I look at the book again. 2020 with Style! Get Your Style on For A New Year and A New You! Stares back at me. Apparently, I zoned out while looking at this because he stares at me expectantly and I begin to feel his growing impatience. 

I nod and hand him the book, but when he reaches to grab it, I see he has a ring on his pinky. The ring obviously doesn’t fit him anymore, but he wears it anyway. It has a set of wings on it, along with an air force number. 

I pause and ask, “What does that ring mean?” 

“Oh, I was in the war a long, long time ago. I wear the ring to remind me of all the things that happened. Sometimes in order to see a better future, you have to realize that you’re already in one compared to where you were yesterday” he replies. 

He takes the book from me, thanks me, and then makes his way to the cash desk. He whistles a warm song and continues on his way. 

Watching him leave, my heart feels warm. He was the first person I’d talked to in a very long time, and nobody has made me feel more intrigued and comforted in a long time. His words made me think. They highlighted things about life I hadn’t even considered. 

So I decide to do something crazy, at least for me. 

I leave the bookstore and rush down the street to catch up with him. He tips his hat to many people, whistling all the way. 

As soon as I reach him, I smile for the first time in a very long time. 

“Would you like to have coffee?” I ask hopefully. 

“Why of course!” he smiles, “You remind me of my daughter Emily. We have been out of touch since her mother passed away, because she cannot bear the thought of coming home without her. It would bring me a lot of peace having a friend to talk to.”

And with that, he lets me walk with him to the closest coffee shop, and we sit and discuss stories of the past, and hopes for the future. 

I never did see that man again, after we left the coffee shop. He told me he had to leave in a hurry, for some show on the telly. I found that funny and watched him go. Sitting with my coffee, I looked down at the table and saw a small note. Written in beautiful cursive, it says:

You are someone who doesn’t know how truly wonderful you are. Spread your wings and fly, the future is what makes you, not the people and things of your past. Life teaches you that, not a silly self-help book. I wish you all the best, Robert. 

And with that, I tear up in the coffee shop, a smile on my face, and a New Year to begin.