Sometimes I stitch a pocket book with you in mind, even though you may never see it. I'm surprised when someone else picks it up, loves it, and says That book is mine.
Then a woman passes by my window, the woman I see often, who never smiles. Or the woman who smiles too much. The woman who pauses, and touches her mouth with a fingertip.
Then the people who ask for friends; little books to be surprises and pleasures on birthdays, celebrations, graduations, or just-because. I need only a few words and an initial letter to set me going.
And you, spontaneous passer by, who stops to run your fingers over my leather ends and fondle my sueded ties. You are my inspiration too. Your eyes, words, fingers tell me stories about who you are, even though you might leave with just a card and a wish.