...
(The Art of Recording)
She hides bits of paper
Everywhere
In-between the pages
Of books she's only read once
And ones she's read
A thousand times
Inside journals
And drawers
She's taped them
To the bottom of desks
And dressers
And on the back wall of her closet
.
They usually don't say much
Sometimes nothing more
Than grocery lists
Or a recording
Of how much her green haired friend
Owes their navigator
But they mean something to her
.
When she was young
And old men told stories
Of how history is lost to time
And the greed of humans
She decided
That if she ever had her own chapter in history
There would be something written there
.
So while they are sometimes just doodles
And tidbits of information
(The name of the coffee vendor
On that summer island
Is tucked behind her desk)
They are also sometimes important
fragments of her life in writing
More precious than she can say
.
When she was little
Still on the run
She would write her mother's
And her best friend's names
On a little scrap of paper
And leave it on every island
She ever came across
So that not even the government
Could bury their existence in history
.
Soon, it becomes more than just a record
Of names
Of the people she loved
She wrote pieces of advice
She never told anyone
Secrets
She was never meant to hear
Titles of books she enjoyed
But couldn't take with her
Her life is slowly written down,
Piece by piece
(She's a realist,
But there's something
Undeniably magical about that)
Sometimes, she imagines historians
Hundreds of years from now
Giving a name
To the mysterious girl
Who left little notes
All over the world
(And someone might even
Write a chapter about her
In one of their books)
.
By nature, and occupation,
She's organized
Looking at her,
You wouldn't imagine
That she has twenty-three recipes
Inside her jewelry box
Or the names
Of every ship she's sailed on
.
The only surprising thing
Is when she sits down
To write a list
Of the people she loves
To leave on the island
Separating them from the new world
And finds herself misjudging time
What before
Only took a second or two
Now takes up an entire page
.
Being a historian
She should be good with dates
But she doesn't remember what time
She realized
That the list of people she loved
Was longer than two names
.
She hopes someday
A little girl
Will look inside a very old box
Or under a rock
Or inside the pages of her new (old) book
And find a little scrap of paper
Written in a child's scrawl
With a tiny bit of history
Not even time can erase
.
She's already wanted to disappear once
She couldn't take it anymore
Her last chance at the truth
Was for nothing
Yet a boy saved her
A captain
He convinced her that living wasn't so bad
He forced her to see
That the world
Was a wonder worth experiencing
He gave her hope
And dreams
And life
.
The least she could do
Is make sure
That what came of his actions
Becomes it's own chapter in history
Because he will become King
(And as a historian
She would kill
To have the grocery list
Of a man like that)
If only to thank him
For making the number of names
She leaves
In books she's only read once
And ones she's read
A thousand times
Inside journals
And drawers
On the bottom of desks
And dressers
And on the back wall of her closet
A little bit longer