32. Then
Then: February 1st
T oday is a typical Saturday. Mom and I ran a few errands during the day, and then I’d spent most of the afternoon writing in my journal and reading. We ate dinner, I finished my homework, then I showered and got ready for bed. But now it’s barely after nine, and I’m lying in my bed wide awake.
I cannot stop thinking about the journal that Mom gave me. I can hear the soft humming coming from the TV in the living room, Dad most likely is still up watching the nightly news. I don’t know if Mom’s already headed off to bed, but I climb out of mine and walk over to the closet.
I flip on the light, and my eyes find what I’m looking for instantly. The shoebox I’d placed her gift in. I don’t remember the last time I bought new shoes, but the box is in mint condition.
Crouching down on the carpet, I carefully open the lid. On top lies Mom’s gorgeous green leather journal. I run my fingers over the gold lettering of her name across the front. Underneath her journal is mine, the tie-dyed one I pull out anytime a new idea strikes me. There are no full stories in there, just a bunch of ideas in the form of lists. I guess I’m like her in that way.
Maybe someday they can become something more than a collection of bullet points.
Underneath that are old receipts and recipes of hers I’ve jotted down on paper. I know all of her secret ingredients by heart. She didn’t give me those herself, I’ve spent enough time in the kitchen with her that I've memorized them. How she tosses in not only one pinch of salt into her meatloaf but two. How she never buys salted butter because she always ends up adding it in herself anyway.
She also never wastes anything she uses. If she has extra of something, that just means she has to whip something else up, and she always does. I know her movements and recipes like the back of my hand. I know most pieces of my mother, except for this little treasure. I have never seen her write anything other than lists before, much less poetry—I’m intrigued, curious even.
The journal is soft to the touch and worn. The edges are curled already and several of the pages are dog-eared, something I never do in my books, but it’s very her. I close the lid on the box and shove it gently to the back wall. Out of sight, out of mind.
I carry her journal tightly against my chest, as though I’m trying to keep it safe from the outside world, not that anybody else is looking but me. But still, I want to protect this precious piece of her. Something sacred and personal she had wanted to share with me.
Once back in bed and under the covers, I reach over to my nightstand and switch on my lamp. I turn to the first page and start reading. Sure enough, it’s a poem—just like she said. Lots of them. There is no date to indicate how long ago she wrote this, but it has a title: Fighting with Myself .
“Fighting with Myself”
I had a fight with myself
It started while lying in bed
My heart couldn’t agree with my head
I thought things I’ve never said.
The words tangled up in my hair
The toddler inside wrestled and cried
Because something in me has died
Can I at least say that I tried?
I had a fight with myself
I threw all the punches
Into my pillow, and in the air
Nightmares I can’t tame anymore.
I had a fight with myself
I think I’ve let the devil win
How he likes to win
Where did I go again?
My hands begin to shake after I finish the poem. I… I don’t know how I feel about it, about any of it. I have questions, so many questions. When did she write this? Was this a long time ago or something she wrote down recently? I quickly flip through the journal, scanning the pages. Every single one of them is filled. Cover to cover there are words on every page showcasing my mother’s heart.
I don’t know what to make of this one. It’s many things, but it’s also terribly sad and depressing. How much of this poem was real? Was any of this real? I read another.
“Words Unsaid”
I won’t let it go to my head
These thoughts that try to escape
They won’t ever leave this bed
You’ll never hear the words unsaid.
Sleep feels like a fairy tale
My mind is a gear that doesn’t end
No such thing as an OFF switch
On this machine in my head.
Close the doors, draw the curtains
End scene, let’s begin again
A new leaf, a new season
Leaving the words inside my head.
I don’t stop reading until it’s well past midnight. I read her entire journal cover to cover. It’s that good. In some parts, I cried, and in others, I had to stifle a giggle so nobody would hear me and wonder what was up. I’m honored my mother trusted me with something of hers so personal, yet also a little scared. I had no idea some of her thoughts got so dark, but then again I can’t say mine haven’t either from time to time.
When I finally finish and I can’t hold my eyes open any longer, I tuck the journal quietly back into the safety of my shoebox and climb back into bed. Mom’s birthday is coming up, and now I know the perfect thing to give her.