That’s right. That’s a bookmark. I don’t know if it was handmade or you sent away for it like those blankets on QVC with pictures of your grandkids fused into the fabric. I have a fair picture in my head of the woman holding the book; the man we can plainly see.
The world of bookmarks was a dangerous one: mothers and distant female relatives got involved. Unicorns and sparkles, the kitten staring into the mirror and the lion staring back; I’ve been given them all.
Later, I just stuck anything between the pages of a book: dry cleaning stub, jury-duty notice, gum wrapper. I’d jam anything in there into anything I was reading at the time, and the books and bookmarks became a story: a note on a napkin in Buenas Aires telling me to meet my husband in the bar, complete with his special little “drawing of love,” he always left me, the boarding pass from a flight to Havana, an envelope from a once-loved friend.
Ah, the bookmark. The life it holds. And as it is with everything that moves forward and changes, something is lost and something is gained.
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