Blank paper.
Crisp, clean, perfect.
The only thing there may be are flecks from the journal cover, little pieces to be wiped away once the pen and the mind are jointly prepared.
He worships the blank sheets, buying notebook upon notebook and staring, knowing one day he will write something; anything.
It starts with one word; red. His pen digs in to the pages and he writes with abandon, describing with love a woman he worships almost as much as he worships the blankness of the pages he is now describing her on.
He knows not how to say the words, so he writes until he can write no more, then goes back for the sentences he likes and moves them to a new, crisp notebook. He fills two notebooks with her, watching her details spill on to the white.
Six sentences are chosen; phrases that describe her flaws and perfections in such a way that he sees her beginning to form in front of him; curves and contours and all.
He carefully sketches the three-letter nickname on to the front of a third notebook and fills the front page with the sentences. It will be his reminder notebook; one to keep for the ages.
He dresses, white tie, and leaves the room, carrying his new reminder with him.
The six sentences are used later, when she stands before him, white flowing from beneath her deep red waves. It reminds him of the notebooks.
When the sentences fall from his lips, and the tears from her eyes, he forgets the blank crispness of the pages and watches them fill with ink, all colors, with scratches and drawings; perfectly sketched ‘i love you’s’ and lopsided ‘don’t talk to me today’s.’ He sees laundry instructions and recipes and potential baby names; funeral dates and anniversary reminders, and he finishes with words not previously planned and most definitely something he never thought he would say.
Red is the color of the ink I like the best, the blood that will bind us, and is the universal color of Love, but mostly it is you; it is how I will always know that you are the one whose hair will drift through my fingers and whose lips taste like strawberries, because red means my love, my wife; my life.
Her hair drifts through his fingers later, red against the white of his vest as she lies in his arms. He reaches for the notebook while she sleeps and scratches words on the second page, still mostly blank.
Red. White. Wife. Life. Love.
