She pulled apart her scrapbook some years ago. At the time there had been a point to it. She had needed the pictures, the postcards for something. Whatever it had been it had obviously seemed important at the time.
Important at the time. This book had once been important at the time. She had won a prize for it. It had been the best one. And now there was just the echoes of the book itself. The one line notes. The coloured-in map. And the holes that stared back at her. The glue, unseen to her as it had been smushed up behind the pictures, had formed into little streaks which looked now like tears. As though the book had cried when it had been ripped apart.
She realised that she had been holding her breath while she had been thinking about it. She exhaled and the breeze she produced moved a piece of tissue paper. She took the paper and wrapped the book back up in it.
She wouldn’t have to cry if she hid the book away again. She hid the book. And cried anyway.
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