Black Notebook

It took me longer than I thought it would to write Andrew's story; partly because I was writing feverishly in Master Prose class to complete OPEN FOR LUNCH. I had a deadline with my editor/publisher and a date for the new memoir's release was on the calendar. YIKES! 

Andrew and I met for lunch at a healthier lunch spot and he handed over the wolf photos. The wolf's eyes stared at me across the table. 

"Thank you for these. I definitely get what took place between you and the wolf." Andrew was a sensitive, artistic man and still so broken from his wife's death. 

"I don't want to impose on you but I brought along a book, like a memory book, I wrote about me and my wife's relationship. She was my soulmate and we wished we had met a lot sooner and enjoyed more time together." He held up a large black notebook and placed it on the table for me to see. "I would like you to take a look. I trust you. No one else has seen it. I will make copies for her children when I am ready to share it." 

Neatly typed white pages interspersed with color photos made up this lovely book. I read a few passages then agreed to take it home to read at my leisure. 

"I'm not a writer like you, but I have also started a story and maybe someday you could take at look at it, too," he said. 

I nodded. I felt both honored and a little stressed about reading this private book of Andrew's; and I wondered when I would get time to complete it along with my own writing deadlines. But I took it on. It meant so much to him for me to read his memories. 

It took me longer than I thought it would to write Andrew's story; partly because I was writing feverishly in Master Prose class to complete OPEN FOR LUNCH. I had a deadline with my editor/publisher and a date for the new memoir's release was on the calendar. YIKES! 

Andrew and I met for lunch at a healthier lunch spot and he handed over the wolf photos. The wolf's eyes stared at me across the table. 

"Thank you for these. I definitely get what took place between you and the wolf." Andrew was a sensitive, artistic man and still so broken from his wife's death. 

"I don't want to impose on you but I brought along a book, like a memory book, I wrote about me and my wife's relationship. She was my soulmate and we wished we had met a lot sooner and enjoyed more time together." He held up a large black notebook and placed it on the table for me to see. "I would like you to take a look. I trust you. No one else has seen it. I will make copies for her children when I am ready to share it." 

Neatly typed white pages interspersed with color photos made up this lovely book. I read a few passages then agreed to take it home to read at my leisure. 

"I'm not a writer like you, but I have also started a story and maybe someday you could take at look at it, too," he said. 

I nodded. I felt both honored and a little stressed about reading this private book of Andrew's; and I wondered when I would get time to complete it along with my own writing deadlines. But I took it on. It meant so much to him for me to read his memories. 

Can you understand why I might feel both honored and stressed about reading Andrew's memory book?