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ex libris

November 9, 2020

Handwritten love letters will never go out of style.

On the inside of the covers appears that plate with the fat chicken wearing glasses, hatching a closed book. Yehiel explained to me that that was his father’s ex libris …— Meir Shalev

A bookplate inscribed to show the name of the book’s owner.
Out of the books or library of someone

Loved ones are going away, to rest; people come home to rest , you are the place of rest. – 5 December 2013.

My dear ex libris – Ivan Doughlas –

I sweetly recall how smittenly she called you I. Echoes of I still drumming my ear. Reading between the acts, you need to give your granddaughter a tender, long but soft hug, gentle, she loves that word, and baptised the place in her word ‘gentle waves’ when she first saw the spot where Chief stood, the old 1969, it was an excursion, you brought her here, I was told.
She was the one who tresspassed, sorting out all my bags and found the inner bark of the tree. Obwandiyag, 1969 model, I see what you did there with your camera, three girls and the three rear lights of the Pontiac, the foggy figure in chrome, who is the prettiest in the garden, the house and the mountain and house almost falling, crashing onto your general motor, all the way from Michigan.

Time passed by, water flows beneath the bridge, for a long time i didnt weep, bottled the grief. I haven’t looked at the bookplate in this way before. My water broke, the cork popped, and the inner life seeking form and shape pushing and pushing, three rear view lights and three little girls. The summers were long, Chief hardly parked, always on the go, fishermen on land, trawlers without nets, from city to countryside, Obwandiyag rolled smoothly second saturday in the month, goods to load, hands needed work, sew, bottle and grow.
She found the bookplate in my old Louis Vutton. I have to check the spelling. It’s up for keeps, I’m still not done, I cant get over this one, I doubt that I ever will, I love that bag she brought for me all the way from the big apple. My Vutton, in more ways than one, needs to be refurbished like the old green chair which is still with me, needs to be spruced up too – in time.

The early seventies, a hard hood and camera, musing, that is something, also the pontiac, love the concept, the story you needed to tell, the lens makes you supple and gentle, three lights and three girls/ Obwandiyag/ 1969 model/ who owns a pontiac /in a tough hood/ salesman of note/ woodcraft/eventually took its toll/ unnecessary/ large families/rabbits and pretty bows/ price-ly/comes with a wretched cost/hush/not now/prodigal is doing well.
I miss you ex libris, before and now we lived far apart, many miles between us and oceans we couldn’t afford to cross, I miss you so much, gentle waves and warm soft sweet hugs.

Scooping up the shavings, kicking the sawdust of the inner bark of a legendary tree, my ex libris

Thank you for checking up on me, 7/11, -oh yes ex libris, smiling, I vividly recall and see the name of the shop across the road from the sea, where gentle waves crossed- affirming in my own handwriting.

Loved ones are going away, to rest; people come home to rest , you are the place of rest. – 5 December 2013.

💌💌💌💌

3 Comments
  1. A beautiful love letter, so warm to the heart. Beautiful memories of long ago are gold nestled in the heart. They never fade. Thank you for sharing precious moments of your life’s journey. Beautifully penned.😊

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