People always made fun of me when they saw all my “ecobags” in the trunk of my car, until they needed one: then I became a hero.
It was little things like that which I had to depend on to make me happy. Writing the thesis for my doctorate left me annoyed and grumpy most of the time.
I felt heroic today coming back from the library with one of my “ecobags” half filled with poetry books. My thesis was regarding topics that weren’t otherwise written about, read, spoken about or heard. I dumped the sources for my research on my bed and began to sort them carefully.
That’s when I saw it for the first time. It was a journal I didn’t remember checking out. When I was about to toss it into the “not needed” pile, I noticed his name etched into the leather.
I’ve known him since we were younger, loved him then, now, and I knew I always would. Needless to say, I was intrigued how a journal of his wound up at the library and what it had to say.
I sat on the edge of my bed with his journal on my knee for what felt like hours. I had to chuckle at myself because of my hesitancy to open it.
To read it.
I already knew everything about him, so what was I afraid of? I even knew he wrote poetry at one time in his life, so maybe this was a collection of his poems. Then I could use it for my thesis.
My heart was pounding as I unsnapped the journal and flipped through it. At the top of the page in each section was a name:
A few of his friends were also in there; I even recognized the names of women he had dated before me. Then I came to the very last section of the journal which bore the heading “Her”. In parenthesis was his pet name for me. There weren’t any names after mine.
As my hand shook, the turning page quivered. The first few pages were like reading a script of my memories. I smiled at some of the details he recalled. I didn’t think he noticed them, but he did.
I continued to read. I took notice of the mentions when he wanted to express how he felt about me, but was afraid of being seen as “weak” or “soft”. What he didn’t know is each word he didn’t say was reflected in his eyes, smile, sigh, moan, and caress.
I took a post it and scribbled a few words on it. The next time he came over I handed him the journal. His eyes widened as he flipped to the page where the post it was:
Then, now, always, we are…No longer having to be afraid.
© Michele Mitchell 2013
Photo credit: Fresh Promotions lindarodriguezwrites.blogspot.com