I.
A gift from my Grandmother,
given when I was only twelve.
Just a plain spiral notebook,
and inscribed on the inside cover
in her own delicate hand...

"Look every day for one happy thing...
write it down here.
This is not a diary, no sad thoughts allowed.
No fanciful wandering, no dark dreary doubts.
When it happens, (and it shall),
you find nothing to write...
That's OK,
just look again the next day...
and the next day...
and the next..."

Well... I tried
but my life was so dark,
miserable and all alone.
After two months,
only three entries were shown.

The book was put on my shelf and soon forgotten.

II.
Six years later...
my first fate filled night.
Friends tried in vain to fill me with hope,
but I knew...and I was certain!
The battle was over, could NEVER be won;
better life be undone.

New razors sharp, shiny glow
bathtub filled to let my blood flow.
Just one final thing,
the note pointing blame.

So I went to my shelf
for something to write.
Still there, covered with dust,
that blasted book.

Supreme irony to write a suicide note
from the pages of this cursed thing.
Happy memories
numbered as only three.

A mistake I made
or perhaps my salvation.
I read the first entry
penciled in lead already fading.

"Wendy R. came to my table at lunch today.
I showed her my limerick about the ant
squished by an ele-phant.
She laughed, said it was funny.
She touched my hand softly
and I think she wanted to kiss me.
It made me feel good, so I'm writing it here."

Tears flowed, anger flooded away.
Just one joyful memory simple and pure.
Razors were tossed, bathtub water drained
I survived just one more day
then one more again,
and the next...
and the next ...

So much joy in life I might have missed.

III.
Many years later...
Such simple pleasure from life
I might never have known.

My lover had been taken... unjust!
Not just any but, "That One Lover," the only one.
That half of my soul, the spoils of my joy
won by the sharing of tears and of years.

With one simple wave, a mere gesture of his hand
God ripped her from me with taunting words of grace.
He laughed at my stupidity, my simple blind faith
as he flipped me "The Holy Bird," and spat in my face.

By now, in my wizened older years,
I was hardened to pain.
This time it was ANGER,
virulent ****-filled Rage!

Knowing no relief
till vengeance's own fury is released
and again I was SURE,
of death... absolutely no FEAR!

As the headlights rushed toward
me it seemed so **** clear
I needed to see God directly,
to laugh at his cursed embrace.

And though the cost be eternal damnation,
I'd gladly pay it thrice
for that one simple chance
to spit back at his self-righteous face.

I know it was not real but I swear,
in that split second of time
in the blur of the lights,
my Grandmother, framed by the haze

one hand a shaking finger
of mirthful admonishment
the other holding
that blessed ****** book!

Brakes slammed...
Tires screech...
Car spins...

Semi-truck's horn receding
from my lost soul.
I had survived yet again
but still all alone

I returned slowly home.

I was afraid to open it
for I knew what it held.
Most of it memories of Bonnie,
the times of us.

Joys turned to haunting memories
Nightmares of dreams un-won, forever lost.

But Grandma knew just what I would need
on the cold winter nights that my heart would bleed.
So I took a deep breath and I opened it first
to a dog eared page visited often, my favorite verse.

Just a couple of lines written with a quick, jerky script.

"Today I first held my son,
such joy...such wonder-
(I CAME SO CLOSE TO MISSING THIS!)
My own simple words cannot express
What I am feeling this moment,
But I knew I had to try -
I'm attempting to write it now."

And at the bottom
of the otherwise barren page
two small fading stains.
The salt of tears shed
on that one exquisite night.
And to those two, were now added more.

I cried...
And I cried...
A flood of tortured relief
and slowly new life dawned, I began to see.

The pain of love's leaving
would always remain,
but with pause, with passing,
would fade to quiet refrain.

Time soothes all wounds in such sublime divine ways.
But my memories of her... the "Best of the Best."
All written right here in this very precious book.
With incredible consummate detail.

The first time she touched me,
the tender tingle it caused.
She first said, "I Love You,"
beneath our special tree.
Our first kiss, the passion it arose.

Our first night together...
a beginning to melding desires,
our bodies first cloaked as lovers-
ahhh four fully filled pages there.

All the intimate telling,
the touching games.
We giggled, we played
we roared with rapture's blessings
till dawn found us exhausted,
fulfilled at last,
still embraced as lovers do,
peacefully fast asleep.

All recorded right here,
safe from the ravages of time.
Why should I so terribly fear;
memory's taunting lull?

I fell right there to the floor on my knees.
I thanked my lover
for being there, though still far away.
I thanked my Grandmother,
her foresight of when I would bleed.
And I thanked God!
Begged his forgiveness, blessedly received.
I survived yet another day.
And the next day yet.
The next... And the next.

IV.
Till I find myself here today
reflecting on his simple plan,
a new book before me,
design so simple yet grand.

Hard-bound leather,
acid free pages of yet ****** paper,
intended to stand firmly
against times wrenching torment.

And on the inside cover with indelible ink
in my own passionate, hand guided script.
Those same simple instructions faded from time
yet engraved clearly, and firmly in my mind.

"Look every day for one happy thing;
write it down here.
This is not a diary, no sad thoughts allowed.
No fanciful wandering, no dark dreary doubts.
When it happens, (and it shall),
you find nothing to write...
that's OK.
just look again the next day...
and the next day...
and the next..."

I close the cover,
I lean back, warm and content.
Jimmy is coming at three,
he is so much like me.

Shy, turned inward,
unsure, yet so full of light.
This "Book of Happy Memories,"
yet to be, is for he.

Today he turned twelve.

It's for the dark lonely nights,
his shorn young heart bleeds,
as my Grandson's soul
cries out...

For it's own healing need.


©  S.Loeding All Rights Reserved