The Secrets Our Journals Keep
I picked up one of my old journals today for the purpose of looking for something specific that I’d written over 10 years ago. I’ve hung on to every journal notebook I’ve filled, perhaps as far back as high school, though their locations vary. I wish I’d been better organized all those years ago, and included a table of content, of sorts, so I’d remember what was in which journal. One of my nieces recently turned me on to something called “bullet journaling,” which I’m going to try with the next new journal I pick up.
But this morning, as I continue work on my book, Was looking for something specific in a journal I’d only recently found. You know what happens when you put something important away in a “safe” spot, and then can’t remember exactly where that safe place was. But I came across it a week ago while searching for something else. What I wanted to get was the wording for something I remembered writing down. It had been over 13 years since I wrote it, and I wanted to remember it correctly; to get it right for the chapter I was working on.
I knew what I was looking for should be among the last dozen or so pages of that particular journal. So it was intent to start at the back and work in reverse. Instead, the journal opened up to just five pages in from the front — to March 12, 1999. Under normal circumstances, I would have just flipped on through the pages until I got to the back of the journal and found the page I was looking for. But I guess this wasn’t suppose to be a normal circumstance.
What caught my attention wasn’t what was written in the journal on that day; although it was my parents’ anniversary, and I’d made an entry about that. But rather it was the three sheets of paper, smaller than the size of a standard index card, that slide out of the journal as I opened it. The pages had a short message that my mom had apparently sent to me. I can only assume I must have received it on that same day; otherwise, I don’t know why it happened to find its home into the pages of the journal on that date.
My eyes widen with pleasure and then watered with sadness as I stared at my mama’s handwriting. I would recognize it anywhere; no matter how many years separated the last time she was able to write. What was written in the note was just as significant as the memories that it, along with seeing her handwriting again, brought to my brain and filled my emotions. I suddenly could sense my mom’s presence but at the same time was reminded of her absence. I missed hearing her voice; being able to talk to her, go see her, and even write back and forth to her.
After reading the message a few times, I was reminded of the specific things she wrote in her note. I couldn’t help but think about how things might have turned out differently in that specific situation she referenced, if she was still around. Actually, I know things would have been different.
She ended her note in the best way possible: “Take care of yourself. Love, Mom.”
Who could ask for anything more?
People, even family members, don’t tell each other how much they care and/or love each other enough. Even the word “love” has been so diluted, abused, mocked, that it’s perhaps even lost its meaning. But back in the days of letter writing and phone calls, there was nothing like hearing or seeing those words, and knowing their truth.
I miss my mom. I grieve her absence, especially during these times when I’m reminded of her presence. I think that’s why it bothers me so much when I see adults treat their aging parents with indifference; as if their parents are a burden, or that their parents’ desire to still be a part of their lives is an inconvenience. I have never understood people who put off returning their phone calls, or extending the time periods in between visits; spending money instead of time, or even encouraging their grandkids to cherish their moments with their grandparents.
Oh the things I would give to have my mom still here in my life today.
