A Whole Page of Spring Wind, Not One Word Is Mine

Six years married, and my husband never once forgot my birthday or my sister's.

He was always traveling, somewhere across the world for work.

Every time he came home, he brought us two navy notebooks, identical on the outside.

I had always believed that meant he treated us the same.

Until this year, when the bookshop mixed up the shipment.

The one I received had a cover of vegetable-tanned leather he'd brought back from Italy.

Its pages held washi paper from Boston, papyrus from Cairo, and photograph after photograph, each one labeled with where it had come from.