Packing up my old apartment was taking longer than I planned. I just had too much stuff.
I spotted a flower-printed hat box. What was inside again? I couldn’t even remember. I opened the lid.
There were all of my journals from third grade until I lost the habit, about 10 years back. Marbled composition books, cloth-covered journals, spiral notebooks, and one I didn’t remember writing in at all. “Angels: A Journal,” the cover said.
A postcard fell out—a souvenir of a friendship that almost became something else. Almost, but didn’t. But that hadn’t stopped me mooning over him for much too long. I flipped through the angel pages, seeing his name over and over. I felt a pang of something, the same longing he once inspired.
I should just get rid of these, I thought. But the angel illustrations and snippets of poetry were so beautiful, I couldn’t stay sad for long. I was over this disappointment. Over him. It was a closed chapter in my life.
Since the days I’d kept that angel diary I’d earned my masters degree, forged a new path as a writer and was working on my first book. But the wistful girl who wrote in that diary—she was me too.
Maybe I’ll start keeping a journal again, I thought, packing up that little angel book, a reminder of the girl I used to be, and the promise of all the things I could become.
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