As I flipped through the mail I looked down. I was thirty-four living as a single mom to two beautiful little girls Abigail and Ophelia, why was expecting anything other than bills and elementary school mailings?

But as I sorted the mail into conquerable piles I saw one item that stuck out. It was a lumpy brown package, bent and crooked. It was addressed to me, with no return address. A parcel like this just screamed ‘terrorist’ but who would want to kill a single mother and English teacher? I slid my finger under the top and opened it. Turning it upside down I let whatever it was fall out onto the counter.

It was a book. Hamlet to be exact. I remembered the book, it was the only book that I had to read for English class that I actually loved. It was the book I wrote 20 pages about it. I fell in love with Hamlet and Ophelia and Gertrude. I fell into the plush chair and leafed through the book.

All these post-it notes fell out. I remember the notes, I basically journaled in this book. These notes were mine.