First Entry

Sunday 2/28/21 – First Entry

I was ten when I found my great grandmother’s journal, stowed away in an old dusty trunk located upstairs in my childhood home. The tattered cover smelled of must and old perfume, and the pages were dog eared and ink smeared, showing clear signs of her vulnerability. The pages had cataloged the life and journey of a woman I have only known through grainy, discolored photographs. Its fragile binding creaked as I became so engrossed in reading about my tangible heritage. A sense of connection flooded over me as I peered into my lineage in a way that I had never experienced. You see, my family members are all closed books, so communication and deep conversations have only ever lived in my mind. I guess being introspective is more than a choice, it is a genetic trait for my family.

When my mother died, I was reminded of this cold disconnect. I felt regret over all the conversations we never had and sentiments that were never said. Growing older means growing apart sometimes. It is not something that we actively tried to achieve, that is just what the world does to you as a kid becoming a cog in the big machine. Life flashes by and before you know it, years have come and gone. I wish we spent more time together, I guess I thought we had more.

She left me a small inheritance to take care of me, a method of affection she was known for. I couldn’t help but feel a pang of resentment that turned to acceptance. Some people just don’t know how to feel their emotions. I can’t fault her for trying. Plus, this would definitely help me gain some stability in this chaotic world. The next few days trickled by and family members began to disappear back into their hibernation. Life was quickly business as usual and my wounds began to scab over in my solitude.

I had started to apply to graduate school, knowing that I could build a life for myself that would bring me an opportunity. Opportunities to have a flourishing career, meet my soulmate, and give my future children the best life. My life would be fulfilling and I could finally have the means to surround myself in an environment where love was given and always returned. I had religiously started to check the mail in the hopes that this so-called “perfect future” of mine could begin with a big “Congratulations!”. The first letter arrived… “We regret to inform you”. Then the next, “Unfortunately”… then the next, “Consider reapplying in the Spring”. And finally, one day, I received a manila envelope with considerable weight. I ripped it open with overwhelming excitement. What I thought would be a welcome packet inviting me to continue my education with resounding acceptance, turned out to be a petite, black notebook.

I pulled the elastic band from the front cover and opened it. Written with a scribbly, shaky hand were the words, “to my sweetheart, with love”. I sank to the ground, the grass tickling my bare legs, and began to read all the words my mother never spoke to me, all at once. Chronicles of her life.. meeting my father, her rainy wedding day, and the risky childbirth she endured to bring me into this world, all spilled off the pages. My cheeks became wet as I pictured her, in the dark hours of the morning, writing these love letters to me. Her only daughter. In this way, she achieved immortality, such as my grandmother and her mother before her. At that moment, a realization washed over me and my opportunity had arrived.

It has been a year since I received my mother’s journal in the mail. My $20,000 inheritance was enough to send my family journals to an editor and publisher. Their stories were printed on thousands of pages and sent out to hundreds of booksellers. Their legacy is felt by millions of people who need reminding that the most important part of this life, is simply living it. I received my first check from the publisher and spent it on something I will always treasure, a little black journal.