Who stole our moment, who stole your cold heart?

The table was there when he moved in. An ugly, cheap table that neither bothered him nor particularly pleased him. For most of the winter he ignored the table, spending most of his time by his bookshelf or in the kitchen. Now that summer had arrived, the living room became a refreshing alternative for his afternoons and evenings.

“There is something between me and dogs…” he trailed off as the empty apartment devoured his words. Walking barefoot with a cup of tea, he ignored the silence. “…we just click, we instantly resonate, we…”

“Yes, yes, you love dogs, they love you. How amazing! Come, there is more to the world than your love for dogs,” an inviting voice enticed him to the living room. On the ugly table, a book waited for him. He had forgotten about it. He had bought it in the flea-market a few days back. “Come child, sit with me, let’s journey through time.”

“Let’s do it.” He grabbed the book and, with solemn respect, asked, “can I finish my thoughts about dogs before?”

“No, not now. I promise I will hear your thoughts later, hold them for me. Let me tell you a story, instead.” He succumbed to the book’s voice and sat next to the table, ready to begin reading. “What are you doing?” Asked the book.

“I am about to dive into your pages to learn the story you have to tell.”
“That’s not my story. That’s the story that the author had in mind. You see, we books are like you people. We have a soul, created by our authors, but a life created by those who read us. We also have a physical body of paper and ink. We’re dormant, mindless, and unaware of the world until someone makes us part of his days, for me that person was Anselmo.”

“Anselmo? Was he the one who bought you?”

“No, he received me as a birthday gift. He had me on his bedside table for over two months, until one day he picked me up, and leafed me slowly. He laughed with me, he revisited some of my pages, and made annotations in his notebooks. From the moment he started reading me, I knew his kindness and thoughtfulness. I heard him mentioning me in conversations, and connecting me to other books. One day, I moved from his bedside to the main bookshelf of his studio. You have no idea the joy it brings a book to be read, and placed with other fulfilled books.”

“Oh, if he was so fond of you, why did he sell you in the flea-market?”

“He didn’t, he died, I was put in a box with many other books and taken to his daughter’s house. She and her husband were not like Anselmo; they were no readers, she kept us as links to her father, and from time to time would come to see us, she would cry and talk to her father while staring at us.”

The book remained silent for a few moments, he held it on his lap, his stare trailed off through his memories, his throat asked for some tea. The back cover had a sticker that read: “Property of Anselmo, If not given by him, please return the book to……”

“What was happening in that house was never clear for me, sometimes she would storm in the room, grab a random book, murmuring ‘Dad, what would you do?’ I was never given the role to be a channel for Anselmo, how ironic!”

“A channel for Anselmo? What does it mean?”

“It means that when you open a book on a random page, it is not random. We were infused with the soul of our first owner. From that communion, the random page is born.”

“What if I am the first owner?”

“Then I’d draw from our soul, the one that my author gave me.”

“So what happened next? How did you end up in the flea-market?”

“Her husband gave us away using an app, someone came to their house, grabbed me expressing that she had been looking for me for a long time. I am not going to lie, I felt excited that someone was willing to read me again, I had understood by then that Anselmo’s daughter was not the reader type.”

He lifted the book at his eye level and felt the texture of its cover with his forehead. His tea was cold, he drank it anyway.

“The new owner broke my heart, she came to me once per month, took me with her everywhere, though she never read more than two pages. I was part of her life, without being. That made me sad, shattered my illusion, you know we books have a purpose, and yes, I know we’re objects, yet we’re not only objects, we’re bridges of souls. We’re looking for an opportunity to become a friend of yours. I have to confess I was angry at this new owner, as every time she started reading me I thought we were building a new moment, she would put some music, sit with me and dive, but the journey never lasted. One day, she forgot me at her boyfriend’s house, and when he pointed it out a few days later she looked at me and bade me goodbye saying, ‘you can keep it, my love.’”

“Oh, how rude!, how did you feel?”

“Like that song that was in the radio a few years ago, the one that asked who would cure the rage, the broken illusion, the broken silence left by a farewell… the one that said: ‘Who stole our moments, who stole our song? Who stole your cold heart?’[1] I was left in despair seeing how my life passed by. They broke up and from time to time the new owner looked at me missing her, he never had the intention of reading me, I was just a souvenir sentenced to the sadness of an unread book. He lived in a student residence, and I saw person after person grabbing me, leafing me, leaving me. I eventually became part of the furniture, and only then I understood Anselmo’s words.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because after leaving Anselmo’s house, I roamed this world without a purpose, falling for person after person, clinging to few crumbs of attention that they would give me. Growing a thick skin, becoming cynical, until I heard you talking to yourself about you and dogs, just like Anselmo would talk to me and his other books. I am telling you because Anselmo is gone as his bond to his books, and somebody needs to mourn it. Someone who can understand the ethereal bonds, someone that knows what he knew, or is open to learn.”

He placed the book on the table, and paced about. The silence heaved on his chest.

“So, what’s with you and dogs? You said you resonate with them, what does it mean?”

“It means, they come to me, relax with me, we can burst into hyperactive games, and calm together as if our hearts were in sync. Sometimes, I feel they have all this need for love and passion that is not fulfilled, and I have so much to give.” He said proudly.

“Or maybe the opposite is true? Maybe you have a void within yourself, and they have too much to give. I don’t know. In any case, on page 248, Anselmo’s high school sweetheart wrote: I really thought we could’ve been friends, after our breakup. On page 249, Anselmo annotated, ‘so much I refused trying to heal and become a better person by myself.’”

He admired the old well-crafted calligraphy, the book continued telling.

“Anselmo wrote on page 311, ‘My dear Azucena, daughter of mine, treasure of this world, in my solitude I decided to adopt you. You’re everything to me, and it pains me seeing you falling apart doing what I did: chasing the covers, and not the stories.’ He placed me on his bookshelf. Maybe you’re like her, maybe she’s like me, maybe I am like you. I don’t know. Perhaps, we all are seeking in the wrong place.”

He closed the book, picked his keys and drove looking for Anselmo’s family.

[1] Silencio roto, Saurom

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Until it is Sunday again,

—Rene