"Where's My Book?"

I could smell her baking, chocolate chip cookies this time. Like Pavlov’s dog when the bell rang, my mouth drooled. It didn’t matter it was 3AM: When the mood struck her, she baked.

The urge to bolt out of bed and run downstairs, to see if I could steal a couple before she noticed passed quickly when I realized I was just dreaming again. I closed my eyes and inhaled. There was no cookie aroma this time waffling into the bedroom.

Getting back to sleep would be useless. With the light on – I must have forgotten to turn it off – I reached for my book. It wasn’t where I left it: since she’s been gone, a book has been her poor replacement next to me.

I wondered if I knocked off. I rolled over and reached onto the floor. There was nothing. I leaned off the edge, see if it went under the bed. The only things I saw here the shoeboxes she left. I rolled off and began to search the bedroom.

It had to be here: I remembered reading it before I fell asleep. I looked on the desk I used when I worked from home and it was not there. I looked on my dresser. I checked on hers. It wasn’t on either place. I returned to the bed and sat.

“Where did it go?” I whispered. I shook my head when I felt a wave of unexpected drowsiness come over me: time to return to Hypnos’ embrace.

As I welcomed slumber, I could have sworn brownies were in the oven.



“Where did this come from?” Jennifer Wallace asked her daughter. She was holding a Ray Bradbury anthology paperback and showing it to her oldest Nicole. “You know you’re not to touch dad’s stuff.”

The teenager looked at her mother; tears began to develop in the corner of her eyes, remembering the last time her father read from his favorite book. It was the night before his death. “I found it on the bathroom stand. I just put it back in your bedroom. I didn’t know where else it should go.”

Jennifer looked into her offspring’s eyes and felt for her, how important this book was to her. She took the girl into her arms and held her tight. She kissed the top of her daughter’s head and felt her sobbing into her shoulder.

Jennifer wanted to cry; she missed her Lawrence.



I awoke before the sun rose. I found the anthology in the bathroom. For the life of me, I didn’t remember being in here with it. I picked it up and sat on the toilet. I put it on the stand Jennifer’s dad made for our shampoos and soaps while I tried to attend to business.