The diary sat there.
The book. of her last days.
The book that was forbidden to me for 15 years.
The familiar Red Diary she so often scribble in with a wrinkle in her brow in her light blue pajamas.
I couldn't resist but held it close to my nose, hoping to catch a whiff of her scent from the book.
It smelled like an 8 year old girl's tears.
I read it.
How shall I put into words the feelings I felt. Have you ever have someone you were close to, like soul mates in love but now feel nothing for that person due to time and distance?
That was how she were to me, nothingness. I don't love her. I don't know her.
Reading her handwritten words, each pen scratch were like her voice. Our very first conversation. Her explanation of her actions and her requests finally found a voice after 15 years.
And though I felt nothing. remember almost nothing of her but her smell and her antiques.
I cried as her words etched her deep, unmoving love for me and my father.
I feel sad when I read all her dedications to her loved ones, her doctors.
I feel angry when I detect the weakness in her handwriting.
I feel happy. so happy when she jots down our beautiful past together as a perfect family. The family I never remembered finally came to life. and I cried know that what little love and comfort I have now is what she had pleaded my father to give me.
I feel envious of her and doubtful of myself when she declare her love for my father again and again. I guess... you can say you love someone forever when you know you are gonna kill yourself soon. The term, 'forever' becomes legit and true. Her pride and her doting on my father was evident in her last words, I doubt that I can feel or love like her in my current self.
Her words were scattered in random pages. some dates corrected. some pages were scribbled on purpose. She wrote on the back of receipts, documents ... I guess I am somewhat like her. Love to write but nags alot in our writing, repeating each point again with different constructions and structures.
Her last page was marked by the ribbon bookmark before she left us forever.
I had always blamed her selfishness for leaving us dry and bleeding. In truth, she was just being afraid of being a burden to her perfect husband and her wonderful daughter.
Well. I learnt that when you know you are close to death, you try to make a mark on the world. the least you could do is write. write. and write.
and there are alot of numbers. Bank account numbers, lawyers, wills, deposit box...phone numbers scribbled. Who do you call to say goodbye?
She called an empty house. Our old house who was already discarded then. whom she so frequently fondly called, 'Home sweet Home'. Just to hear the happy memories ring .. ring... ring..
Oh. What pain she must have gone thru. What pain he had gone thru. Who am I to cry when I am the one being loved and pampered the most though it's scarce by norm.
I often thought I was unsheltered. Unloved. but infact, in this ugly scenario.. I was already given the maximum bleeding amount of love everybody else can afford.
It's time I admit to myself. I was not traumatized due to my headstrong and cold heart. I was protected all along.
I was fooled by my own perception of myself, of other people's perception of myself. that I am Strong.
When in fact, I am just another sheltered cowardly child.
Fatally wounded and undead, he protected me with a 'collateral damage' mask so that I am.. who I am today.
Which leads me.
Who am I.
I smoke.
I slack.
I disregard my loved ones.
I am in a mess that I can't get out.
I have yet to experience love like they did.
Very little children will bide by their parents wishes, eventhough most of the time they want the best for us.
but for me. I shall follow her wishes for me.
to be truly happy for myself.
Drastic decisions have to be made.
If you think you know me now, you probably won't soon.
A drawing she drew in one of the letters in the top corner.
My Happy Family.
gone
