Today was the day she died

I am in the midst of cleaning out my attic, see previous post. While I have been traversing the years up there I have come across memories so precious they take my breath away. From yearbooks to baby books, antiques to silly collectibles I have found my past and it is me. 

Once we die everything ends up in somebody else's yard sale. Well my shit is ending up in mine.

This lifetime archeological dig turned up something that never belonged to me. Something I never worked on and only glanced at once, many years ago. It was in a little black suitcase that looks more like an old record player case; my mother's manuscript.

She asked me to read it. I started but never finished. At the time I didn't think it was very good, at the time I wasn't very good, so what did I know. 

I am older now, than she was when she finished her book. How heartbreaking that I never gave it back and never discussed it with her. When I think about the anticipation we feel when someone reads our stuff, I can just imagine how much my silence must have hurt.

Today is the day she died, Easter Sunday, eight years ago; today is the day she is discovered.

I will read and post about it; standby. 

I open the black case. It was a make-up case because there is a mirror on the inside of the cover. My image is blurred by old silver backed glass.

There is a sticky note on page one, I had written; “book should start on page seven.”

Page seven; this is the sentence I thought she should start with.

“Life was never the same for Tobias after Carries death.”

To be continued.