Page 109 of 72 Hours of You

Her parents rush to say thank you but I wave them off. “It’s nothing.”

It is nothing. And it’s also something. It’s everything.

I don’t know how long the whole gelato thing takes. The girl doesn’t have a clock over her head. No one in this little square does. Everyone is living. But everyone is also dying. We all are. All the time, every second. It’s not just the last three days that matter. It’s all of it. At least, I think that’s what Peter would tell me.

I keep walking, the cobblestones uneven under my feet. And then I make it to the water. I’ve been here for a couple weeks, but the color still takes my breath away every time I see it. It’s so clear and blue and green and alive. Some kind of white bird flies over the water, its wing skimming the surface. There’s a breeze blowing through my hair, and if I close my eyes, I can almost pretend that he’s still with me. Almost.

I slide my backpack off and unzip it. I reach in and pull out the rough brown paper bag. I can feel the book in there, can see almost every line in my mind, even without looking at it.

I slip the small red book from the same bag I’ve been keeping it in since Peter bought it all those months ago.

I run my hands over the fabric cover. There’s no author and no publisher listed. Just a red hardcover with a gold title: The Way This Is.

It’s a collection of poems. It must’ve been self-published or something because no matter how many times I’ve searched on the internet, nothing has ever come up. Maybe this copy is the only one in the world.

I flip through the pages until I find what I’m looking for. One small collection of words, by whoever wrote it.

The way this is

Is the way it’s supposed to be

Because if it wasn’t

Oh honey, there wouldn’t be a you and me

There’s a circle around it, and in ballpoint pen Peter wrote: Us.

I whisper the words out loud and press the book to my chest, standing still, letting the sun warm my face.

The wind picks up again and I tear a blank page out of the back of the book. I take my time folding it, smoothing the edges. And then I pull out a pen, and I write his name on the wing. I hold the bird in the palm of my hand, until the breeze takes it.

Peter Beckett. He lived a lifetime. With me.