A precious journal is misplaced |
The Journal Long-labored over and lost for good. Even after ripping and tearing, through possible hiding places. Now I feel both stupid and cheated. They made a difference to me. Those newborn innocent words. I was more concerned about showing off, than caring for my written child. Did they leave a mark? Did they fill a void even if I can't remember? Will they be seen or claimed by another, these sparrow words now fallen? I was careless like a neglectful parent. Please care for them, you who find them. I grieve the very real feelings they gave. I accept the fact it will not be returned. With shame and self-loathing I write, "Lost : Writing Journal- please call ", with a number to inquire. Feeling like a dead-beat parent, Dreding a call that might never come, I try to keep myself occupied, Ignoring, pen, paper, and keyboard. A gentle knock on my door... "Hello. believe this is yours" There is my child, wounded, pathetic, dirty...torn. My face feels hot and feverish. Like a first date gone backwards, And wring, horribly wrong. I retrieve it from the polite man, wearing the orange jumpsuit, who drives and fills the Grim Reaper of unwanted garbage. The butter-soft leather now stinks, as badly as my conscience. I hope the paper inside will forgive, and accept my words. By: Kimarie Freeman |