#107
The table had a half finished puzzle on it I had to push to the side so I had space to write. To think. The books that were piled on the chairs, were back where I could reach them when I needed to look up a piece of sentence. I need space, time, to do the yearly change over from one diary to another, the birthdays copied onto the dates, the holidays noted in the margins. The blank pages staring at me, but with optimistic eyes this time.
December 20, dog’s birthday.
May 9, mother.
September 22, myself.
I flick through the year that was. The phone calls to make, the dr’s and dentist appointments. The lunches, meetings, trips, notes to do things, buy things, go places. A history.
The photos I keep with the diary move from one to another and seem to grow each year. A photo of great grandparents. Some old ones I found at an antique store. My favorite photos of mom and dad, the only one of them together. The Sydney Opera House. A field. A villa in Italy.
At the end of the photos, notes. One from a friend, telling me to help myself to bread he had baked and left out for me when I arrived from a long journey, followed by a grocery store list of things to pick up if I could. He’d write me a check when I get back. A colorful piece of paper with a quote from T. Roosevelt, given to me at high school graduation from a great aunt. A person I knew, but wish I knew more about before she passed. The quote, she lives by, as I’ve tried to do.
The year, marked with pen, the pages, full of stuff, full of life, full of a life lived, and time past. The new diary, ready for the same mementos of the days that will pass, probably too quickly, but hopefully, also slowly at times, while we wait out whatever it is that is meant to happen to us.
I never counted the new year as starting on January 1, I always count it on my birthday, but to keep with the trend, I’ll switch my calendar. Tennis is on Tuesdays and Thursday still. Wednesdays are still therapy. Fridays are usually quiet, good for a long walk with the dog.