The box sat there long after I had put everything else away. I did not know what I was to do with it. It had come to me along with the other boxes from the old house but this box was different. It was filled to the brim with notebooks of all kinds; big and small, fat and thin, square and rectangle. Most were unruled and some had square grids. Some were even within their original plastic packaging. They all had one thing in common and that is that they seemed to be unused.
I sat down beside the box and started to remove them one by one. Why were they empty and what was the point of having so many of them in the first place? What was the reason for their existence?
I picked one and ruffled through the pages. It was hand bound and looked exotic like it had been found in one of those kitsch stores. Nothing.
I repeated this action with every book in the box, hoping to find a clue to what they had meant to their owner, my father. But I found nothing. Nothing but yellowing pages sometimes riddled with bookworm holes.
One by one, I put them back in the box, and put the box under my bed.