After reading the reviews of this product, I was hesatant to buy, But I have had very good service with Amazon.com in the past and thought I’d risk it. Sure enough when the board arived it was broken, I asked the driver to wait while I inspected it, when I saw that it was broken, I declined delivery. Then I called Amazon.com, The lady was very helpful and courtious and placed another bord on order for me then. When the second board arived it was packaged no better than the first but this time it was marked fragile and arrived in perfect condition. My advice would be to order this only if you want a good bulletin board at a good price but don’t need it right away.
Can you tell me what you HONESTLY think about this beginning/prologue? Please, it’s not long.
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I DON’T REMEMBER MY FIRST LIFE WELL. It comes to me slowly, a blur beneath my eyelid, an image incapable of reaching clarity. I can’t recall faces, or names, but I know the souls. The very essence of the people I surrounded myself with is what stuck with me all this time. I’m sure I knew it back then—their faces, names, common emotions—but time wore on and I continued to grow young and old and young and old and soon enough the details of their faces were softened down until they just became stains in my memory. So when her face comes to me as the moon hangs bright and swollen in the indigo sky, and I am hidden beneath a crisp mountain of bed sheets, I expect to be surprised. Instead, a feeling of warmth ignites in the pit of my stomach, as if a fire is burning somewhere deep inside me. I move slowly into a sitting position, resting my head against the headboard, letting the image in front of me become clear. My mother sits unmoving at the foot of my bed, with a tray holding a steaming mug of tea between her hands. Her dark stare grazes along my arms, my neck, my eyes. We sit there for a while, exchanging no words at all. Oak Traveling desk The faint smell of lemon lingers in the air, dancing beneath my nose. My mother’s eyes travel gradually around the room—resting on everything from the oak shelf of dusted books, the sheer curtains billowing around a window, to the aged wooden desk littered with prescriptions and medicines—then back to me again. I realize that I could say something, anything, to release the tension but I don’t. The silence is comforting to me, it’s right. A sad smile dances on my mothers lips, before her face falls back into the nightfall. She looks tired, yet I don’t think it’s due to a lack of sleep. It seems like she’s just tired. Tired of everything. My muscles scream in protest as I crawl out of the bed and my feet hit the cold tiled floors, sending strings of pain up and down my tired legs. Footsteps are swallowed by the darkness as I make my way slowly down to stand in front of my mother, this woman who my mind had forgotten so easily. Her olive skin glows somehow, but I reason that maybe it is just her soul, shining bright inside her. My mother’s name is—or was—Giovanna, and in this moment that is all I can push myself to remember. Her soft cheek finds its way into the palm of my hand and that is when I realize she is crying. Her black eyes meet mine for the first time in a long time and I feel myself suck in breath; her eyes are sad eyes, disappointed eyes, expecting eyes, knowing eyes. The room suddenly feels as if it is thick with fog—waiting, waiting, waiting, until the moment I open my mouth to choke me with its gentle fingers. My eyebrows furrow deeply, lips pressed together. Words unravel from her mouth like silk, “Lorenzo.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. I realize that she is calling me by the same name she had given me all those lifetimes ago. Her voice is soft yet drowned with a certain sadness, and I wonder why this is so. My mother stands, causing the floorboards to groan in protest. The moonlight casts sheer shadows over her angular features, her pinned chocolate hair. She takes my hand in hers, cupping it against my rough cheek. “Oh Lorenzo, please, please be careful.” For some reason I can not bring myself to speak, but the confusion brewing in my mind is unbearable. Be careful? I want to say, Now why would I do that? If I mess up this life I get a new one. It’s simple. “Please Lorenzo.” She whispers, her voice hoarse, as if she hears my thoughts. “Be careful.”
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