Red Book

He gave it to me the first time he had to go away. Back then it was a tiny, slim volume - a token, he said, something to remember him by. Flicking through the small pages, I instantly recognised what I had begun to call Edward-isms. Short, kooky phrases, little notes saying "loves you peaches" etc, and miniature printed copies of our emails, glued to the lined paper. I took it everywhere with me. Then Edward came back, and I put the book away. But then he would have to leave again, and the book would come out and he would add to it, or we would write things in together. It became like a journal of our time together - a heartbreaking leftover of Edward, something to cling to during his absence.

Over time, the book filled out. We added pages of scribbled nonsense, love notes, photographs, old ticket-stubs. I constructed an Edward out of paper and ink, a lover I could carry around in my pocket all day, every day. This widow's diary became more real to me than the man who kept abandoning me then returning. So much so, that each time Edward came back my heart would skip one less beat. My hands wouldn't shake and my breathing wouldn't falter. Eventually I would begin to long for the moment when he had to once again walk out the door and leave me behind with nothing but a small, battered tome by which to remember him.

I sleep with a red book under my pillow. If I wake in the night and feel all alone in the darkness, I slide my hand under the cotton and gently prise a finger between its old, yellowing pages. Edward has been gone for a long, long time, but I feel that if I ever see him again it will only be so that I can do the one thing he's never had the nerve to do, and that is to say goodbye for good.