I wriggled into the warmth of a fresh December bed, exhilarated by the first few pages of a new library book. My desperate attempt to shift from a nightly routine of doom-scrolling and catastrophizing to one far more … relaxing. As with previous years, the newly darkened days prove to take their toll and I find myself pacing like a cartoon at half past eight.

My scene was set: a large jug of water, a seltzer water, an as-needed lozenge, a sleeping aid, and a celebratory piece of gum – ah yes, time to start reading. As I turned the first page, something fell out of the back cover. Knowing I had not yet opened this “new-to-me” novel, my curiosity piqued. A warning from my spirit guides? The skin of an onion sent to curse me? Few possibilities jogged through my mind until I held in my hands a laminated bookmark. Its smooth surface coated with bright blocked colors and indistinguishable markings aside from five big bold letters: “REECE.” 

More often than not, I wonder how connected we truly are in this slightly-larger-than-small town. Rarely do I recognize a smattering of faces at an event, nor do I politely nod to anyone more than strangers on the street – and yet here we are. A myriad of timelines twisting together in the form of brushed shoulders at a crowded bar and polite doors held open. Our versions of common ground are blurred by the biases that come with infinite perspectives and yet, here we both are. We both ended up in the same place. 

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Our versions of common ground are blurred by the biases that come with infinite perspectives and yet, here we both are.

Sarah Jayne Johnson

author

What choices did we both make to get here? What small things do we have that are the same? Is the butterscotch coffee from The Goat Coffee House your favorite, too? Do you prefer the stillness of campus when students are on break? Do you know which bridges are most slippery in January? Conversely, what is entirely and incomparably our own? Perhaps the most sacred components of our lives are the connections only we can make. Like the sound of my current dog’s paws clicking on my bedroom floor, how they’re reminiscent of my childhood dog running through my Nana’s kitchen. Or how John Denver on a record player sounds like the night I got engaged. We are all fragments of stories that float together, knocking around in the breeze like feathers and leaves just hoping to make friends with someone before we touch the ground. Serendipity, as it is, finds us when we don’t force it. 

I have no earthly idea who Reece is. Maybe this bookmark was a school-made craft-turned gift. Maybe it was the result of a rainy day not wanting to be wasted or a parent’s last attempt at peace and quiet. Maybe Reece is a kid – wholly anticipating the upcoming holiday season, or maybe (similar to me) they are a tired millennial who can barely be bothered to put up a tree. Maybe they think about this bookmark often, or maybe it is just another scrap that was once buried in a backpack. Maybe Reece was the curse, and the onion peel skin was just a red herring – I guess only time will tell. Regardless of its origin, it will sit now on my bedside table (next to the waters, lozenges, sleeping aids, and gum of course) – a companion for the library books to come, and a welcome reminder of the infinite lines that connect us to so many storylines if we simply stop to draw them.