Great Grandmother’s journal

They met every morning.
They met every night.
Pen would gently caress paper,
whispering secrets and weaving together the day’s tales.
Cursive letters freely flowing onto the slightly transparent page.
She would open up her life’s stories to the thin
spiral bound book, as it would open up to her,
listening intently.

Laying on the small white table lazily,
it would wait for her return as a loyal friend ever would.
When she returned it was always glad
lifting and turning its pages excitedly.
Sometimes it would tell her a story or two.
Sometimes it would recite an earlier told story
that she wanted to remember.
And it would proudly retell it, word for word,
without a single hesitation.

On bright Sunday mornings it would
wake with her as the sun happily rose, and give her a quiet Sunday greeting.
Sipping her coffee and nibbling at an English muffin
she told of her thoughts for the day
like it had already happened.
She never repeated herself in each fable she painted,
she would construe a tale able to tame any curiosity.
She would have told one today I’m sure.
But when death’s gentle cold hand rested on her shoulder
beckoning her to come,
The Journal made a promise to her.

Now I tell my stories to the thinly bound book.
And it listens intently for me,
It still waits lazily on the small white table.
It still passes along a quiet Sunday greeting.
And when I’m overwhelmed in my curiosity,
It helps me tame it with an old painting.
It proudly retold it,
Remembering it word for word,
forever engraved in it’s memory.