January/February 2008

The floor creaked as Simon crept through his grandparents’ attic towards a large chest in the corner of the room that had caught his eye. In the dusty attic, cobwebs hung from the shelves and bookcases and a thick layer of dust blanketed the mildew-covered furniture. As he timidly tiptoed towards the chest, Simon felt an air of complete silence in the small room, a feeling that the whole world was waiting for him to discover what lay ahead. Carefully raising the key to the large brass lock that secured the maple-wood chest, Simon slowly turned it between his fingers. The key felt smooth and cool, and it fit perfectly in the keyhole. A satisfactory “click” sounded from the chest and he lifted the lid. Inside it was filled with many magnificent treasures: loads and loads of books. His eyes feasted upon the sight and he immediately reached for one of the musty spines, caution instantly gone from his body. And it was only a few moments later when Simon realized that what lay before him were not normal books. “Tuesday, December 23, 1986,” he read aloud into the dimly lit room. Once again he could almost feel the whole room listening to him. The ancient furniture, the peeling wallpaper covering the cracked walls, and even the spiders stopped weaving their webs to listen to Simon’s eloquent voice. Simon was good at reading aloud, and he knew it, for when he read aloud, he could nearly bring the words alive. “Dear Diary” he continued to his audience. “I know you aren’t much of a book, just a few old scraps bound together, but that was all I could find, just like everything is all I could find. When we are still hungry after dinner it is because those few scraps of meat and broken crackers were all I could find, and when we are cold at night it is because the small knit blanket was all I could find. That is the way we live, and I can’t do much to change it. Every day I try looking for an odd job or collecting coins on the busy sidewalks. The way it is is not easy, but the way it is is the way it is.” “Here, take this key as well. It may do you some good in unlocking those other worlds” Simon paused for a moment. Deep sympathy filled his heart for the writer of the tattered diary He was so intrigued that he read on. “My family and I may not have it well off, sleeping in the park, scavenging for scraps of food, begging for money on the streets. Yet every day it seems that I have my children to remind me that I can still be a happy man. In fact, when I think about it, I am happier than most men. I have my family, and whether we don’t have much to eat or not, we are still together. We have our own kind of riches.” The end of the entry made Simon’s mind churn. Although he had not met the man, he felt that he already knew him very well. Simon tried to imagine his own family living that way. All his life he had lived in the same house with a roof over his head. His parents had cooked him meals and bought him things. He could never remember his family being desperate. The silence in the room urged Simon to think to himself, and inside he knew he had changed. *          *          * As he gently placed the dirty diary onto the floor beside him, Simon began to wonder why his grandparents had the chest in their attic. And how had they obtained the diary of the man? He had been exploring for good books around the house earlier that day when his grandpa had suggested that he look up in the attic. “Who knows what you’ll find up there,” he had told his grandson. “When your grandmother closed down the shop all the books came with us. Here, take this key as well. It may do you some good in unlocking those other worlds.” Simon had taken the key from his grandpa’s wrinkled hand and thanked him. He didn’t question him on what he had been told. He knew it was up to him to find out what was up there. It was more fun that way. It was more fun for him to discover the chest himself, and whatever mysteries lay behind it and inside it. It’s up to me, he thought to himself as he reached into the chest and pulled out another book. As he was opening the front cover, he heard a soft knock on the attic door and in walked his grandma. “Jonah told me he’d given you the key,” she said with a tiny smile on her lips and a subtle sparkle in her eyes. “And it’s about time we showed it to you,” she added. She walked over to where Simon was sitting on a corduroy cushion and seated herself next to him. “I see you’ve found Oscar’s diary,” she said, pointing to the one he had just been reading, which was lying open on the floor. “You know him?” Simon asked incredulously. “He’s a very good friend of mine,” his grandma told him. “This diary from when he was living on the streets became published as a book, with help from me and everyone else at the publishing house. And I’m the lucky owner of the original copy,” she informed him proudly. “How’d you meet the guy? Oscar, I mean.” His grandma began to weave her tale. “While I was on my way to the subway station to visit your grandfather some twenty years ago, I saw a man alongside the sidewalk who was trying to sharpen a stubby pencil on the concrete. In his other hand he was holding a small book. I was in a hurry to see Jonah