There is a book at the bottom of the bin. The cover’s worn, the words are faded, making it hard to read. I gently flip through the pages of the book, smiling at the innocent pictures and the crayon markings of a child who loved the book well. It’s forgotten now, but here it is, found. I wonder who it belonged to and why it was so discarded. If the book was so well loved, why was it left behind?
I imagine that the child wanted the book read every night. The pages were turned every night and every night he listened with wide eyed wonder. He’d take his crayons and make a mark in the book as if to say “This book was mine, I loved it, and I wanted to highlight it as something wonderful.”
But then, the child moved. It was immediate and hurried. The child could only take so much, just the essentials and the book was quickly forgotten and tossed aside. It was only later until he realized that his favorite book was left behind. Sadness ensued, and eventually the book was replaced, but it wouldn’t never take the place of the original.