Many tiny things

He had this habit that I was so very fond of, a habit of leaving small things everywhere, in a way that made them seem to appear suddenly, as if they were magical and could move on their own. I'd arrive at my desk and there would be a small gift. The first time was a flower, then an origami--he could only make three origamis: a bird, a flower and a monkey, which was very intricate. He gave me tiny colorful boxes, and more flowers--always only the bud, roses, tulips, lilies, an orchid once. He never did it while I was looking; I could never catch him on the act. They were always placed as if forgotten there, as if they had just been there for ever.

He did it everywhere. Sometimes I opened a drawer and there was a small gift there. Sometimes it was on my pillow; other times inside a shoe. Glass beads, paperweights, pictures of us, little painted metal boxes, colorful pens he knew I loved, cards with poems, little wood sculptures, CDs which I often ignored until I noticed that I had never seen their cover before, all sorts of tiny things.

Even after I left him, it still took months to find everything he had left. A small porcupine made of sandal in the pocket of a coat, short notes in beautiful cards hidden here and there, a CD that I still love to hear, even a paperweight hidden at the bottom of a drawer. I sometimes wondered if he wasn't still coming when I wasn't there to hide more things.

Today a card fell from a poem book I have. I picked up that book today just because I happened to set my eyes on it, lying on the shelf, and remembered that I hadn't opened that book in years. There it was, a small note. “Maybe the day you read this, we'll be married and with kids.” I hear my kids playing outside, my husband watching TV, and, like I have done every day of my life for years now, I wonder why I left him.