A field of water betrays the spirit that is in the air. It is continually receiving new life and motion from above. It is intermediate between land and sky.
- Walden by Henry David Thoreau
When I was about nine or ten, my father caught me reading an erotic novel. Once he got over the fear that his daughter might be a pervert—spoiler alert: I’m not…I think—he sat me down and told me every story is not meant for every audience. I assured him I’d never read anything like that again, and, out of respect for my promise, waited a full five minutes before I went right back to reading the rest. I’m practically a saint.
The thing was, it had nothing to do with the sweaty scenes where things fit together that I was wholly confused about at my age, but the fact that these had been my mother’s books. I’d found them in a box of her things long after she’d died, and every page I read, I read with her. My heart broke and was mended right alongside the characters, and I cried over the same tear-stained pages my mother had. I laughed at romantic quips and imagined her beside me, sharing the joke.
Books captured my soul, and completely changed the way I saw the world. The shared experience of knowing those who read these words were aching with me, giggling with me, loving with me was captivating. Being able to write like that, to bring people together, soon eclipsed my childhood dreams of being an actress, a truck driver, or the bearded lady at the circus. Yes, there was once a time I’d wanted to be the bearded lady.
As I grew into an adult, and that beard never did grow in (small miracles), my goals evolved. I started adding to the things I wanted out of life, but writing a book was always there. Now I’m twenty-eight years old, and with all the wisdom and knowledge from my extensive time on this planet—note the heavy sarcasm—I’ve come up with three goals for my life.
To write a book. Here we go.
To become a mother. Soon.
To marry the love of my life. Check.
When I started writing this journal, I hadn’t really intended it to become the book, but you know what they say—we make plans and God laughs. I had already married an amazing man years earlier and was working toward the second goal on my list. I meant for these pages to tell the story of my journey into motherhood, and the ensuing ups and downs. It was going to be about new life and lost life, about how I raised my little sister after our mother died, and how I’d known even then, that motherhood was my greatest aspiration.
I had never planned to show this to anyone outside of my family, but still, it would be written. I would have written a book. And I was so damn excited to tell the story I’d been writing my whole life, finally on paper this time.
Was.
Because I thought I knew the story already. I thought I knew how it would end. I had no clue this story was meant for everyone, and every audience. If I had known, maybe I would’ve started writing it sooner. Maybe I’d have changed the ending.
The problem is, I won’t live long enough to do that.
And when you read this book, you’re going to want me to. At least, I hope you will. I hope you’ll wish for a miracle, for the words on the page to transform into an epic tale of almost, so close, our prayers were answered, Hallelujah! But after that moment of hope, you’ll need to remind yourself a miracle isn’t coming.
This story isn’t a cautionary tale. It’s just life, and life ends.
I wish I could write a happily-ever-after like my mother’s novels, where the greatest of romances can conquer death. But that isn’t going to happen, and I’m really sorry it won’t. I wish I would live long enough to write you those stories, but I am dying.
And my story dies with me.