24 February 2010

All Her Ways

They found the journals long after she had gone. Beautiful books, some bound in leather, some suede. Others embossed with her favorite jeweled colors; deep wine-reds, warm terracotta, cobalt blues. Many of them trailing the tails of bookmarks, one holding the remains of a fragile forget-me-not, another a photo. A date for every written entry, years upon years of a life.

They began to read, tentatively at first, as if the reading of the words would pull them to a place too private to be viewed by their eyes. But in the end, curiosity got the best of them. They wanted to know her secrets, all her ways. They expected the mundane, the everyday musings of little importance and in some cases that is exactly what they found. They were, however, unprepared for the extraordinary.


They read of all the ways she had lived. A life at times joyful and despairing in the same moment. A life lived recklessly or with thoughtful caution. One of passion and lethargy. Exclamations coming from all of them as they discovered something new. Through her words, their eyes viewed grieving they had never known she'd felt. As the minutes turned to hours they continued to read, silently now, burdened by the weight of her words.  Words that told them how little they'd known.

They discovered the only one she had ever loved. The one she would never forget. They heard her laughter in her descriptions of happy times they also remembered, and smiled along with her words. Their eyes widened at her hastily scrawled words written after waking from a dream. Words of fantasy, horror, dread, silliness and sensuality. They remembered stories born from these words written in the dead of night.

Every emotion possible was inked into those pages. One could almost hear the scratch of her pen across the paper.  Words blurred with her tears or framed with whimsical drawings. Beach sand in the creases of the pages of this journal, the aroma of vanilla on the pages of that one. Reminders of her ways. 

The daylight was dimming as they finished reading. They gathered the journals and packed them carefully in a box. They would be taken out again over the years, but for now, they had served their purpose. Those who had read her words had known her forever. But now, they recognized her. Her words had served their purpose also. Her life would shine through them.....Always.

2 comments:

  1. always... a big word, always beautiful

    ReplyDelete
  2. i am without words.....the beauty is everywhere

    ReplyDelete