This isn’t kid stuff, though I kept a diary when I was seven years-old. It had Holly Hobbie at the front and a lock and a key. It was orange with flowers. And I wrote in it everyday.
Whatever happened to it, I can’t remember. Perhaps I ripped it into shreds or burned it in our fireplace, too afraid of its seven-year-old-implications.
But, now that I’m older, I regret not faithfully keeping a diary or a journal. Secrets aren’t usually kept, nor are they rarely written down. Yes, I have secrets, but, I also have stories, memories I would have liked to preserve in print.
Perhaps they will prove to be of use to me should I age inappropriately into dementia. Perhaps they will be lovingly archived by my curious children. Perhaps they will serve as nothing more than a therapeutic letter to myself in the solitude of night. Perhaps they will serve to fuel another fire.
Regardless, I’d like to keep one.
Besides, this notebook is too interesting to waste.
(c) Zara Alexis D. Garcia-Alvarez