Bram. London. December. 1980.
It is the last day of the last month of the first year of a new decade.
Oliver is gone when Changeling wakes me up by crawling atop my face. She meows until I acknowledge her. She misses Oliver
when he’s gone. I do too. She prefers Oliver to me. I do too.
“I know, sweetie, I’m not him. But he has a session today. He’ll be back.”
On his side of the bed is the journal I got him for his birthday. Now filled with our thoughts and fears. We keep it carefully
hidden under a loose floorboard, for our words would give our secret away.
I flip the pages until I see his new note: I didn’t think it possible, but I think this was the best year of my life. Thank you.
I write my own: Next year will be better, I promise.
I place the journal back under the floorboard. He’ll see my message soon enough. I feel a sudden wave of superstitious panic.
Am I tempting fate by promising an even better year?
But the anxiety doesn’t last. I’m too happy. Too certain that the best is yet to come.