Small, Ordinary, Golden Things

There are some books we remember for the story, and some we remember for the company we kept while reading them.

For Terry, books were never just books. They were objects of affection. Small sacred things. He liked the weight of them, the sound of a page turning, the quiet satisfaction of holding a story in both hands like it had somewhere important to be. A real book, in Terry’s opinion, was not optional. It was part of the ceremony.

Mitch Albom was already in very good standing in our house. Terry had read several of his books, particularly the ones orbiting life, death, and all the mysterious business in between. Thoughtful books. Tender books. The kind that make you stare at the ceiling for ten minutes afterward as if the plaster might reveal the meaning of existence.

Then came The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto.

Now this was different.

A pleasant surprise, like finding twenty dollars in an old coat pocket or hearing your favorite song come on just as you pull into the driveway.

This one had music in its bones.

And Terry, being a musician to his core, lit up for it immediately.

By then, MS had made itself far too comfortable in our lives. It had quietly stolen things piece by piece, the way winter slowly takes the leaves without asking permission. Coordination first. Mobility next. Buttons became tiny engineering projects. A shirt could feel like a Rubik’s Cube.

And instruments, once such natural extensions of him, became harder and harder to hold.

No guitar.
No piano.

A cruel joke, really. Like telling a bird it can still admire the sky.

But here is the lovely thing about stories.

They are sneaky.

They find side doors.

When holding the book itself became tiring, I became the designated audiobook with no pause button and questionable narration skills. I read aloud while Terry listened, corrected my pronunciation when necessary, and occasionally offered commentary as if we were hosting our own tiny literary panel.

“I would not have chosen that voice for this character,” he’d say.

Very helpful.

So we read it together.

Page by page, chapter by chapter.

And in those moments, something subtle but beautiful happened. The loss receded a little. Not disappeared, just stepped politely into the background.

The room became fuller.

Music returned in another form.

Not through fingers on strings or hands on keys, but through words, memory, imagination, and conversation. Through the shared rhythm of a story we both loved.

We talked about songs, musicians, scenes from the book, and people we had known who reminded us of its characters. One thought led to another the way melodies do, naturally and without effort.

Those hours remain bright in my memory.

Small, ordinary, golden things.

Not dramatic. Not grand.

Just two people sharing a book, a laugh, a thought, a little borrowed magic.

Sometimes love looks very glamorous.

And sometimes it looks like sitting nearby, reading chapter twelve out loud while trying not to butcher a Spanish accent.

Both count.