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The Notebook
by
Nicholas Sparks
Ready now. On go the glasses, out of my pocket comes a magnifier. I put it
on the table for a moment while I open the notebook. It takes two licks on
my gnarled finger to get the well-worn cover open to the first page. Then
I put the magnifier in place.
There is always a moment right before I begin to read the story when my mind
churns, and I wonder, Will it happen today? I don’t know, for I never
know beforehand, and deep down it really doesn’t matter. It’s
the possibility that keeps me going, not the guarantee, a sort of wager on
my part. And though you may call me a dreamer or fool or any other thing,
I believe that anything is possible.
I realize the odds, and science, are against me. But science is not the total
answer; this I know, this I have learned in my lifetime. And that leaves me
with the belief that miracles, no matter how inexplicable or unbelievable,
are real and can occur once again, just as I do every day, I begin to read
the notebook aloud, so that she can hear it, in the hope that the miracle
that has come to dominate my life will once again prevail.
And maybe, just maybe, it will.
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