My first book

On one rainy morning in November,
just a few days shy of your birthday,
you came to see me.

We have only known each other for several months,
but it seemed like we have been friends
for the longest time.

You were holding your favorite book in your chest,
a book that was partially soaking wet,
and then placed it in my hand.

You told me to read it.
I laughed.
You knew I couldn’t read well.

I gave it back to you.

I couldn’t remember what you said to persuade me,
it was million years ago,
but you won. I promised you to read it.

You smiled ever so beautifully,
my attempt not to smile back failed miserably.
You told me you’d come back to make sure I read it.

You never did.

I never opened the book.
I buried it deep inside my closet,
because the sight of it reminded me of you.

But I made you a promise.
It takes exactly two years, three months, and seventeen days
to finally let you go.

Today, I want you to know,
although I believe you were watching me the whole time
from up there,

that I have finally finished reading my first book.