I was trying to repress her worries, but the ghosts of my ‘childhood past’ kept rising to the surface in a blur of faces and emotions. It wasn’t until a trip back home for a tragic death in the family that it all became clear.
The house was full of family members and the soft whisper of empathetic voices, all trying to console one another. My mother’s throaty sobs had now faded into the background. It was a sound I thought I would never hear again, after my grandmother (her mother) passed away.
I headed to my childhood room in the back of the house. It was exactly how I had left it years ago when I left for college. The four-poster canopy bed greeting me at the door always made me feel like a princess. The matching white oak bookshelf-dressers were lined with books, porcelain dolls and trinkets from every phase of my life, all the way up to the day I left. As I rifled through the drawers I came across a small lined notebook. It was covered with doodles, but in the center of the front cover, was the word ‘Journal’. The memories suddenly came flooding back. This was not just a book of poetry or short stories; these were the words of the little girl inside of me. This was what she wanted me to confront, to remember, to overcome.
I closed the door, sat down in the rocking chair by the window, and began to read.
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