Puzzle Piece

It is so funny the way our senses and memories tie themselves together so vividly. Like, the smell of the tree outside your childhood home. The sound of the morning doves means more than the sounds of the finch or sometimes, just the smell of the neighbor cooking something that reminds you of mom. Our heart pumps just a bit faster because of the smell, taste or sound of something pushed to back of our minds, but still resided there.

The book was not wrapped in anything but tissue paper inside of the parcel. It’s edges just a bit frayed and a few pages dog eared. I can see marks of highlighter and pen in some of the margins as I flip through them and the smell hits me like a brick wall. It’s musky and a hint of the library where it is from still lays dormant in them. The binding of it has yellowed a bit, probably from sitting in a window and catching the sunlight for just a bit too long.

The book is mine. Undoubtedly, it is the book that I let him borrow. I know not just because of the address of the library barcode, but because of the spine. It is intact. Completely and totally, still together. And if there is one thing I always do, I break the spine of a book. I try my darndest not to, especially because it is from the library, but I become so ingrained in stories that I forget it is not mine to break. He, however, never broke them.

One pin straight sort and one a bit wild. A mix that really only lasts as long as the book you lent does.

The address on the parcel is still the same, but the smell from the pages is different. Perhaps, he changed his cologne or maybe he stopped buying my favorite scent of candle. Maybe his senses are just as in tune to me as mine were to him. I expected nothing from him because when was the last time I received anything from this address?

But here it was. A memory laced with memories.

The book was great, of course, it was. It was why I ever left it there, but a book lent to someone lost is a book that will never be read again.

The pages were marked with highlighted dialogue and quotes. Pen scribbled in margins to describe how the words made him feel. There were so many more annotations than expected. Typical of him to not think I would ever return the book, so he was free to mark it. I am no thief though; I always replace it with a new version that I buy myself. Again, a scowl received by the librarian. Maybe I should change libraries. For her sanity, not so much my own.

The clear assumption, though, rubs me in a raw spot. A bruise that never quite healed and made my heart flip just like the pages. As I look at the spaces on my bookshelf, I wonder if there is even a place for this novel anymore. Does it deserve to move others for a space of its own? It has been missing for so long now, I worry it may look like a stranger next to the others. It would feel out of place.

We make so much room in our lives for people and things that do not fit. Puzzle pieces from a completely different puzzle. And sometimes, no matter which angle you try to get it to fit, it just won’t settle there. The change of the scent that is clearly from his home and the yellowing of the edges of pages from a window I know he never let me open, it turns my stomach in memory not so fondly.

The smell of musk implies dust to me. As if, he too, did not thing the book worthy of anything more than the windowsill. A spot on his bookshelf not used, perhaps because my perfume lingered too long. And highlighting in my least favorite colors, not on purpose, but thoughtless nonetheless. Annotations are ironically hard to read, considering the neat environment I know it spent years in.

Neat environment that I spent years in. My mess a nuisance and my puzzle piece never quite finding its place where I lay my head. The parcel is even too tidy, unwrinkled. Something the post office has never really followed through on, but trust it to happen if his hands have touched it.

I leave the book on the table and glance at my clothing. My shirt is not ironed and I wear a pair of overalls because it’s easier than matching things in my wardrobe. I think of his crisp white button downs and his polished shoes. My converse still has paint on them, they are canvas sneakers, after all. My hair rests in a knotty bun on top of my head from a rush in the morning because I woke up too late. I think of his alarm clock that wakes you up with the illusion of the sun’s light and the sheets that were always hard to get out of, tucked too tight.

I smell of patchouli and lavender, the book wafting smells of cedarwood and leather. My table filled with random letters and too many coffee mugs, I can see his now, the granite countertops sparkling from cleaner, a hint of lemon from them.

Memory after memory, smell after smell and the feel of the pages ruined. I realize, the book was never sent to return, but perhaps, a bit of an homage to me. His memory of me reflected through the wear of the novel. Yellowed pages, crinkled corners and annotations that are not written straight. A puzzle piece that did not fit into his life, so it was time to honor and dispose.

I move a few books to the right on the top shelf.

I fit the book perfectly in the middle, hidden but not unseen.

The parcel finds my trash.

Not an unfit puzzle piece, but one that stood out.