The Diary

A couple of years after my mother's passing, I was given the task of going through what was left of her earthly possessions. The majority of them I was sure would no doubt end up thrown away. You see, my mom became a sort of packrat, as many people do when they get older. You could say she was a bit of a hoarder. Although, she wasn't like those people we are fascinated by on reality television. And, she didn't collect useless or frivolous things either. My mom collected books. Books of all shapes and forms, particularly old books. Many of which turned out to be valuable, so we were able to sell them and pay for her funeral. Because, as we all know, the business of burying someone's loved ones is the second most lucrative and overpriced trades in the world next to marriage.

It took me several months to go through her extensive collection. By the time I reached the end of this quest, I was exhausted. The vicious cycle of arriving at her home and walking in, expecting her to be there. Then, feeling my heart sink into despair at the tacit realization she had permanently changed addresses to somewhere other than the physical plain. I found myself feeling a mixture of bittersweet relief that my task was coming to completion. The voices in my mind telling me, I would soon no longer have an excuse to visit her. What was I going to do now?

Amongst the cobwebs and occasional eight-legged creature whose name I will not utter. Who I am sure was as unhappy to see me as I was to see it. I found many surprising things. There was everything from various sets of encyclopedias, to medical journals from the 1700s and 1800s, and scads of cookbooks littered with scribbles of her familiar handwriting throughout the margins. I even came across a handful of old grocer's receipts and lists, where my mother expressed her irritation at how she forgot to pick up the milk. Even though that was her primary reason for going to the store.

Why did she keep these things? In a way, I was grateful she did. They provided some comfort to me as her words walked me down memory lane. Along with the sound of her voice twinged by laughter while she quipped about her advancing age.

It was not until I came upon the last box, I found something that surprised and terrified me. There it sat in the bottom of the tattered cardboard box. A notebook. A solid black leather creation that did not bear the signs of time-worn use as the rest of the items. Strange, considering it was buried by various knick-knacks, other loose papers, and photographs.

Despite the fact, at first glance, it wasn't special as far as appearance. It intrigued me.

I sat there holding it, realizing in retrospect throughout my life there were few times I saw my mother without a notebook like this one. I used to see her scribbling away in it from time to time and I figured it was a daily planner or journal. So, I never bothered to look inside. I, after all, consider myself an honest non-sneaky sort of person. Not to mention, I was taught if you want others to respect your privacy, you should do the same for them. And, since I believed this to be her diary, I exercised the utmost respect for her and kept my distance from the book to ensure the secrets were preserved.

Now I am grown, I found my curiosity had too. Maybe reading it, I could become closer to her, which is something I was on a desperate search for now she was no longer with me. It could give me insight into what she was thinking and experiencing in her last days. Providing a much-needed salve for my heart by allowing me to hear her voice through the words she had written.

After taking a deep breath, I opened the notebook. Upon reading the first line, a strange heaviness came into my chest. My breath became shallow. The title read, "Here is written the life of..." But instead of her name, it was mine. I flew through the pages, finding each one served as an account of milestones in my life. All starting, of course, with the day I was born. The comedic account of my entering the world. And, how my first act was not to cry, but howl like a wolf baying at the moon. Which was hilarious, considering I was born under a full moon. The next few entry details were more mundane, and perhaps gross at times. My first bowel movement, first bite of solid food, and my first word, "Damnit!" It was something I blurted out after finding one of my favorite toys broken.

I laughed as I pictured the expression on her face upon hearing this come out of my mouth. Laughing more, while I further imagined the look on my father's face when she told him.

The diary continued as she recounted my days in kindergarten. She spoke about how impressed, yet not surprised, she was that I was reading books far too advanced for my age. Also, making note of a few accidents I endured due to the fact my teacher didn't believe I needed to go to the bathroom. These were not instances I liked speaking about after they happened, and I don't recall my mother being present when something like this occurred. However, considering I was so young, I don't recollect much from back then and assumed my teacher informed her and most likely apologized.

My mother's depiction of what I went through in first grade was much the same as my time in kindergarten. As was the subsequent grades after, leading up to my difficult time in 5th grade, when I transferred to a Christian school. Although, it was only this way in name rather than staff behavior. Particularly, my teacher, who had an affinity for spanking little girls. I found this portion difficult to read, as it went into great detail about the beatings I suffered at his evil hands, and the extraordinary lengths I went to hide bruises from everyone. Especially, my mother. Yet, from reading this, it appeared she knew all along. More surprising was her documentation the man suffered a mysterious, yet, unknown cause of death. Despite the fact, all everyone knew about his leaving the school was he had quit and was never heard from again.

A strange unsettling feeling, mixed with the sensation of vindication coursed through me, while I read this realizing my mother knew more about this situation than she ever told anyone. Even her diary. I began to wonder why we never spoke about what happened to me. At the same time, I figured it was for the best that she didn't. At least not then, anyway.

From that point on, events sped by quickly. Sixth and seventh grade only warranting two or three sentences at the most between them. Eighth grade being a little bit of a fiasco, spanning over no less than ten pages, accounting numerous problems plaguing my life then that would lead to me repeating the grade. In comparison to this small epic, my high school years didn't seem much to write home about, considering the last four years only covered two pages collectively.

When I thought this was going to be an ordinary account of my life, as told by my mother, I could perhaps use to write my autobiography one day, is when it turned more alarming. To be honest, I was expecting the diary to end right there. Or, at least, shortly thereafter. Instead, it just became more curious.

My eyes frantically scanning back and forth over each page, I realized it was an account of my life from each following year. On one page, I noticed a full account of how I had lost my virginity, and in subsequent journaling of when and how I broke up with my long-time girlfriend. Which was strange, considering I hadn't come out to my mother at this time, and she hadn't met any of my girlfriends. We weren't even living in the same part of the country.

By this time, I found my hands becoming clammy. The words of the diary frightening me. It wasn't just the fact I hadn't told anyone about these events, but the great detail she described these different aspects of my life when she was nowhere around. As I stated before, we were not living in the same part of the country. To iterate further, I had lost touch with the majority of my family, when I moved out of state to start school and my new job. I thought for a moment by some chance my girlfriend relayed the story to someone in that circle, but that was dismissed by the glaring fact she never met anyone in my family. And, this was long before social media was a thing.

After reading the various entries about my college years, I became even more alarmed. Reading through numerous other events I never told her, as we were estranged. Such as my stint of homelessness and moving further cross country for a job. It also detailed my growing love for a woman I met at work and the short-lived relationship that blossomed there before she left me to go back to her husband. There was a tone of, "moral to this story, is never get your pussy where you get your paycheck," coating every word. Almost to say, she taught me better. To which I found myself grumbling, "I know, Mom. I know."

It was after this I found myself perusing through diary entries leading up to this year. The fear overwhelming me. As if the previous pages hadn't frightened me enough, my mother passed away in 2015. May 10th, 2015, to be exact. Yet, there were entries leading up to four years after her death.

Except for being penned by someone already deceased, these entries were pretty jovial. Talking about how I had gotten a good job, settled down, and built my own family.

This brings me to the last entry, the date, July 4th, 2019. There was nothing written after this, leaving the remaining pages of the diary completely blank. Of all of her accounts in the diary, I would have to say this one will haunt me the most. To be honest, it is a day that won't soon leave my memory.

I was on my way back home from work early that morning. The weather was reasonable the previous evening, so I decided to take the Harley. For the most part, I was alone on the road home, except for the man who nearly ran me down in his truck. It was very dark, plus the kid was too absorbed in his phone to notice the light changing. So it was no surprise that he was shocked to find someone merely inches away from the front of his vehicle when he finally decided to look up from the screen.

The bumper and grill nearly colliding into me, as I narrowly escaped. Feeling the force of the wind, and hearing the scream of his tires behind me, as he only missed me by inches. I can even now still see the flash of horror in his young face as I caught a glimpse of it in that split second between life and death, or worse. The diary, as with all of the other entries, did not spare any detail. Except, for one very particular deviation.

July 4th, 2019, I made it out with my life, grazing the face of death with my narrow escape. However, the diary says otherwise.