
The boy finishes a page and swiftly flips the
spiral notebook on its back. Immediately his pen starts ambling across the
page, and with just one line to study, I do it. I laser into that line… "I’m
done with it." YES. I feel guilty and triumphant and thrilled, shoplifting
this little detail. He’s 'done with it' I think to myself. WHAT (or who) is he
done with, and WHY? It makes me consider slipping on my shades to pickpocket a
few more items but there isn’t time, I need more now. He's halfway down the
page, and I see where his arm was covering the beginning of the sentence. He
actually wrote "I don't think I’m
done with it." Huh. NOT done with it. NOT done? I feel mad relief, getting
the whole sentence, as if I’d almost been stuck with a counterfeit, a knockoff Prada,
But now I know I got the real deal.
What's strange is, I’m not this person, this
sly-sneaky-stealer. I’m not one who's tempted to look at a co-worker's calendar
or shuffle through a friend's pile of mail while house-sitting. I even feel
guilty reading someone's newspaper over their shoulder in line or on an
airplane (I mean, they bought it,
it's officially theirs). And good God,
a journal? Someone's DIARY? That's a whole other thing, the safe-haven of the
soul, Sacred Territory. It's something I would... I am about to write,
"...never do..." but stop. Because, well, I just did. I pause and
check myself for guilt, like tenderly touching a new bruise. But I’m surprised to
fine none. And I’m even more surprised that I’m glad.
Your words lift me.
ReplyDeleteYES!
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