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I’m not sure what to write here since I’ve never used a diary before. Frankly I really don’t get the point about writing down your life in a book. Life is supposed to be lived, right? Not to be read.
Anyway, since I don’t know how you’re supposed to do this, and I’m guessing there are no rules, I’ll tell you this much. This is not a diary to me; it’s an introduction… an introduction to a young girl’s tale.
Though, I hardly believe that my life would be as interesting to someone else, as to call it a tale. But if you don’t mind, dear reader please read it anyway.
The one presenting this diary for me was my father. He used to be my favorite person in the whole world, and that is why I accepted this. It’s not precisely the customary present to give a thirteen year girl for her birthday, is it now? But at that time, I’d have been pleased with anything he gave me. Because, at that time life was a walk on a field of white roses, unharmed, it was a life with an endless white innocence, and happiness to it. That was when I was thirteen.
Two weeks after I was given the diary, my father died, and as a result of that, my mother changed. Since he was not there anymore, she thought his belongings or anything showing his existence should not be either.
She threw away everything; his clothes, his books. Yes, even the paintings he made of all of us; of my mother, my little brother, and me. Except for one thing, and that was this diary. She never found out about it, for she was not there for my thirteenth birthday, and even though I ought to be mad about that, for a first I was happy. If this was the only way to keep my father with me, I would not let her have it.
After that we moved. My mother sold the house to only a pebble of what it was worth. It was only a pebble of what it meant, to me, to my little brother, and what it should have meant to her. Nevertheless we left, and I never saw that house again.
We moved to California, a sunny place, a brown dry place. And it made me long for the rainy, green and blue weather by our beautiful house. That now belonged to someone else. Dear person, who bought it, please treasure it, don’t mistreat it, and please, bring life to it again.
After a while my mother made me and my brother attend school. He was only six so it would be a first for him. And him being at that age, he looked forward to it. Me on the other hand, wasn’t all that psyched about it. It wasn’t that I was nervous, and it wasn’t like I hated school or anything. It was more like… I couldn’t picture it. I couldn’t picture myself, walking to the school bus in my uniform, while the sun was shining brightly outside. Not me sitting with my friends on the bench, trying to get a tan before going for a swim on the weekend. If it was anyone else, sure, but not me, not here, and not like this. I’d rather go back to my old school, so close to our home that you could walk there. Where there were only three or four hundred people attending, not like the 1500 pupils in the new school. Where my father would go home early from work and pick me up every day. Though however much I’d love that; it was just a dream, a dream of a distant, happy memory, covered in fog as it rests at the back of my head, slowly fading away against my will. As would all of my memories of that time, eventually fade away, until the happy times, were just an illusion, a simple fragment of the past.





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