The Book That Was Not Mine, 2003, by Miss Jones

From MemoryArchive

Who: Miss Jones
What: Finding Someone's Belonging
When: February 2003
Where: Iowa City, IA

Any college coffee snob will tell you that a mall coffee shop is not the place to get your coffee, but even after a semester of new coffee experiences, my freshman sense of habitual timidity would not let me try another place. T Spoons was comfortable and I knew it. I treated myself to coffee from the mall when I could afford the mocha cappuccinos, the only thing I knew how to order. That February Friday I took the bus downtown for class. It was nine a.m., and I always got downtown a half hour before my classes began in case the busses disappeared or I forgot where I was going. Normally I sat in the hallway and read until Interpretation of Literature began, but that day was not grey day characteristic of January or February. It was a gift from bright and early November, still wintery, but with a sunlit blue sky. The air was crisp and I forgave the sun its cold shoulder just because I could see its face.

Beautiful days and Fridays are good days for treats. I got my coffee and crossed the street towards Schaeffer Hall, which was right behind a bus stop. I decided to sit on a bench like I had somewhere to go. A few people were sitting on the benches next to mine and I wondered where they were off to, why they rode the bus, what their names were. I did not get out my book to read. I looked across the street, up at the trees, and over the passersby. I did not look up close to me. Finally my eyes needed a break from all that sunshine and life and I turned them to the dull, unfinished wood of the park bench. Then I saw the book.

A black book lay limp on the bench beside me, and I wondered how I had missed it when I sat down. Creases streaked the book. It had no title. The pages would not lay flat, so they popped the cover up just a bit, making the book open. The lift of the cover allowed me to see the notes folded inside and the rubbed spots of the golden gilt on the edges of the pages. I looked around to see if the owner was nearby, like it was a dog. No one seemed attached to it. I reached out and lifted the cover the rest of the way open to see if someone claimed it as a belonging inside.

Until I saw “The Holy Bible” printed on the first delicate page, the obvious biblical appearance of the book did not dawn on me. I scooted a little closer to it. This had to be important to someone. I wondered if it would be okay if I rummaged through the notes and written comments just to see what this person thought. I took a peek and saw a quote that the person had written on a yellow piece of scratch paper. It said, “Someday the sun will shine, then I will look up.” I rushed through my backpack to find a pen and paper so I could write the quote down before the person came back, just to hold onto something from the book that was not mine. Would they come back? Why did they leave something so personal behind? I wondered if they left it for someone else to pick up, a gift of insight for a stranger. So was I supposed to take it? Was someone else? Maybe someone just forgot it altogether.

I checked my cell phone. Class would start in three minutes. I stared at the Bible, waiting for an answer. Since it was not mine, I was hesitant to take it, even if it was a peculiar find. I left it for someone else to see. After class, I went back to check on it. If someone was there, maybe we could talk. If it was still unaccompanied, maybe it was supposed to be mine after all. But the bare bench cupped it no more, and the clouds passed in front of the sun.