In my mind's eye I can see a shelf with each year of my life represented by a thick bound book.
Little white and pink diaries with locks and keys from my childhood.
Victorian day books from my early married life give way to the tooled leather-bound journals that captivated my fancy during my late twenties.
Sturdy, predictable moleskine notebooks I discovered in my mid-thirties dominate the shelf until my taste changes again in my senior years.
Within each volume, creamy paper and chocolate ink record my reflections as I dance, struggle, and stride through my appointed years.
Photos, news clippings, pressed flowers, and charming sketches illustrate the beauty of a quiet, intentional life.
Letters, their secrets secured with ribbon, chronicle my friendships and hint at larger happenings in the world.
But none of that is reality.
A collection of motley blank books record odd days of my life.
None are filled.
Hundreds of letters and clippings are squirreled away in odd boxes and drawers, and I happily find an excuse to pause my cleaning efforts and fly to a gold-kissed past when I happen upon them.
My journals are written in flesh. My thoughts, my experiences, whether sunshine or spleen, both serious and silly, were shared with family and friends.
My diaries are the hearts of those I have loved through the years.
You are written on my heart in love,
Momma
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