Life in 23 Pages

I found my Love’s journal.

The one he wrote before me.

Those who know me say that I grew up a curious child, the sense of wonder and curiosity never went away.

So I opened it, and read – all 23 pages.

The words were familiar – stories I had heard in my Love’s own voice. We had no secrets. But it was different seeing them written in his own hand.

In the journal he asked those “red-faced or embarrassed enough to want to read this” to read between the lines. I didn’t have to, because we were one person. I could feel his pain.

The journal was filled with thoughts of a man who, due to challenges and circumstance, was exceedingly unhappy but eventually found happiness alone. He loved his children, but couldn’t understand why they grew apart. He did the best he could, but considered his life SHIT. He vowed to make changes in his lifestyle. He opined about his lack of female companionship, but was still hopeful for the future.

Then 10 months later through fate or happenstance, we bumped into each other. A curious introverted woman who was nearly bald, certainly not his type, thought entirely too much, and refused to trust anyone. A larger-than-life man who had been knocked down by life, was impulsive, extroverted, had a great sense of humor, but was hopeful. What a combination.

The rest is history. He taught me that trust is possible when one is loved unconditionally. He said I taught him that life could be fun again. We believed in each other, loved each other, and helped dull the sharp edges during our 4987 days together.

I miss him…