Fiction –
—
Entry One (in which I am beleaguered)
Dear Mother,
Yellow is the color of good cheer and sunlight and daffodils and happiness.
Why is this journal you have given me yellow? Surely you do not believe that its cheerful force will act upon me and suffuse me with sunlit felicity. I am not a girl of felicitous nature, Mother, and I am annoyed at the thought that you have hue-chosen so inappropriately.
Although yellow is also the color of cowardice.
Perhaps cowering within this yellow is your fear of hearing truths spoken aloud.
Cowardice, a gift from my mother.
Yes, that will do.
Thank you for the gift.
I shall treasure it always.
Me
No, people.
This is not Maj.
Read the tags.
Me
Always me.
Miss? Your Channel? It is very yellow. I am now going to go look up ‘felicity’.
A funny thing?
I could write from now until forever as Maj.
Or as Kallan.
Or as myself.
Words that none of us have spoken aloud.
Is that yellow?
So be it.
Me
It always amazes me how much of me is in my son.
Yes . . .
And even if I were to write a version of Maj here, a version of what I think she might do or think she might say . . .
All of the words and thoughts are, in the end, mine.
My understanding of her, from outside.
And so really, not her at all.
Except as she exists in me.
Only me.
Exactly.
And that us very cheery and yellow. Hopefully not cowardly yellow.
There are two sides to every colored coin.
At least two sides.
*is not us. But you get the point. And indeed two sides.
Hee hee . . . I knew what you meant.
Also? Just found this on the internet (so it must be true): “Yellow is an unstable and spontaneous color, so avoid using yellow if you want to suggest stability and safety.”
So I’m all set.
I wrote in a diary as a child. I often wondered if my Mom ever read it because there would be times when things felt “off”. Like someone had been there but not.
I think we talked about that feeling once.
Anyway.
I took writing in a diary into my young adulthood.
Until my privacy was violated by my then-husband.
I tore the diaries up (I had my childhood diaries as well) and threw them away.
I can not, to this day, comfortably write anything in a diary. I have tried.
Sigh.
An odd quirk. Or something.
Snort . . . you so write in a diary, babe.
It’s just a different less-secret kind.
Silly.
But yes . . . hasn’t every girl in the history of girls at some point written in an honest-to-goodness diary?
The kind with a tiny lock and key.
I know my girls have.
I know I did, for a bit.
As for your once-husband? An asshole, as you know.
I’m sorry you felt forced to throw away all of those words of yours . . .
Me
Yes, I know blogging is journaling.
I meant pen to paper, silly.
I wish now that I wouldn’t have thrown those words away.
So many memories that were captured.
Sigh.
I have very little from when I was a child.
Almost none of my own writing.
So many things lost or discarded along the way.
But . . . I have the girl who wrote those words, changed for having written them.
As do you.
It’s scary what the kids get from you isn’t it? I can only hope that neither of my 2 kids have inherited my klutziness… I don’t want to ever have to hear that one of them has broken and dislocated a toe while dancing with their child in their own livingroom to Ricky Martin’s Cup Of Life.
No one else needs to have THAT joy, I’ll keep it all for myself.
M
Ok, what a lovely image that is.
Hee hee.
Thank you!
Which is not to say I am pleased you broke your toe to the music of the devil Ricky Martin.
You know what I mean.
I still can’t hear that song without flinching.
M
You read the post I put up once about Ricky Martin’s “La Vida Loca,” correct?
I dunno… Now I have to go and look.
I told a woman once that her name was yellow. She didn’t like it. Not really my decision.
Hee hee.
I love that.