It's Time

Sometimes when I wake, I still see images of that summer fresh in my mind. I envision Mr. Brinkley, sitting in the shared garden behind our house, writing in his notebook. The late afternoon shadows falling down around him.

Mr. Brinkley had been our neighbor for many years, and his family sent caretakers so that he could live in his home, even at his advanced age. They would wheel him out into the garden and let him sit by the big tree. He would jot away in that mysterious little black notebook all day long.

I fast forward my mind to the day when the ambulance came and Mr. Brinkley no longer sat in the garden. It has been a decade since that summer; and I now fully grown, hold the notebook carefully to protect the secrets inside.

I never told anyone about the notebook or how I came to be in its possession. The truth is, it had been left in the garden, neatly folded inside a silken scarf and tucked behind a rock at the base of the big tree.

The thing I always found interesting about the notebook is the writing began at the end and worked its way backwards. It almost seemed like the pages towards the front were written in different handwriting. When I found the book as a child, I didn’t really understand this aspect.

Now as I waited in the lobby of the attorney’s office, I softly chuckled. Mr. Brinkley knew very well that I had watched him in the garden from my bedroom window. He left that journal for me to find. The page that starts the journal is halfway back and begins with, “My dear neighbor, one day you will be able to pick up where I left off and continue this journey that was left to me. You will know when it’s time to begin.”

I studied the pages over the years, piecing the clues and entries together in their reverse timeline. I knew that no matter how I pieced it together, it would take some financing to pick up where Mr. Brinkley stopped. My parents were very strict about my earnings being applied to University and traveling abroad was out of the question.

As the years passed, the journal was set to the side and became somewhat forgotten. Adventurous endeavors faded as reality of studying and preparing for a career set in. I longed for the days of my youth when I could spend the hours as I wished. Now I dredged along, accomplishing the onslaught of deadlines that was expected in adulthood.

I received the call from the attorney a few days ago. There was an account that had come to maturity and was endowed to me by one Mr. Hobbes Brinkley. The balance was twenty thousand dollars, and a small handwritten note was enclosed that read: It’s Time.

I was speechless when I took the call. This was the opportunity I didn’t know I was waiting for. The studies, the work, the preparation and foundation building of my adult life could take a pause. This was the chance to breathe some life back into my adventurous daydreams and make Mr. Brinkley proud. Honestly, this was a chance to make me proud. I could really live, each day unwritten. No more racing against my calendar of deadlines.

I rummaged through my bag for a pen, ready to make my first entry. I turned to the page before Mr. Brinkley’s last entry and entered what would be the next leg of this mysterious journey in the little black notebook.