I went into my father’s library one day to borrow a book. I sought wisdom and knew he had shelves full of wisdom and learning and experience.

I entered the warm room and paused to breathe the scent of books. The years caught up in pages and binding require a way to make themselves known. The years slip through the pages like water through cloth and seep into the room. That’s what makes the smell, you see. I walked through the scent looking for that one book that would contain the wisdom I sought.

A shelf set off alone caught my attention. There were only two things on the entire shelf- a large, leather-bound book and a glass bottle full of clear fluid. In a room of shelves filled to bursting this shelf so sparsely settled was an oddity. I picked up the bottle and turned it over in my hands. It seemed strangely heavy in my hands, but that only added to the mystery. I replaced the bottle and took down the book.

Brown, soft, supple leather served as a cover for the book. It felt smooth in my hands, but the book too was heavy, almost too heavy to hold. I had to put in down on a table before I could open it. It was full of dates and notations written in my father’s writing. The dates all seemed familiar to me, like something I wanted nothing to do with.

I looked closely at some of the notes beside the dates. I saw my name repeated time and again. It was the same on the next page and the next. I was the center of this book full of troubled days. Some of the dates I recognized. They were days so full of heartache and trouble I would never return to them no matter how much wealth I was offered. There were days that had been much like any other aside from perhaps being more difficult than most. I left the book on the table and went back to the bottle.

I pulled the stopper from the clear glass, dipped my finger in and touched my finger to my tongue. Salt. The liquid was as salty as an ocean, as saline, as tears. I put the bottle next to the book and found understanding.

My father had sent me in here for wisdom. He sent me to a bottle of my tears and a book of my troubles. And here, in the midst of my troubles, I found understanding.