entry #1 - november 29th
she has been following me, Journal.
when I turn my head I can sometimes catch a glimpse of her.
I don't know what she wants.
I don't know if I want to know.
my watch reads 9:02 A.M.
entry #2 - december 1st
the garden is far too gone,
I don't even know where to start.
the dirt has cracked, my lemon tree has soured.
even the worms have left.
the ivy has claimed everything as its own, and weeds reign supreme.
I'm sorry. I remember when it was better.
she watches me from the brick wall. silent, save for the flutter of wings. I kneel and weep, cradling the dry earth.
entry #3 - december 3rd
she follows while I walk, keen eyes on every move. she does not dare to creep too close; I do not dare to stop her. we continue our dance, the moon orbiting the Earth.
the wind is whispering secrets through the trees in a language I recognize yet cannot understand. she parrots them back at me from a distance still.
my watch reads 12:01 P.M.
entry #4 - december 6th
my mother visited today. remarked dryly on the dust covering the piano, the tables, the stove. only I see the small footprints trailing across them, the pointed eyes watching from a high perch.
something unhappy squirms inside me.
there’s a clock on the wall above the couch.
it reads 3:37 P.M.
entry #5 - december 8th
all my plates were shattered. I don't know if it was her or I who did it.
how long has she been here?
the clock reads 3:37 P.M.
entry #6 - december 11th
I remember a cool morning on the porch, tea in hand. I could see my breath with every exhale. she sang me her borrowed songs from her place among the corn stalks, standing proudly in their bold youthfulness.
the garden was green, I think.
entry #7 - december 16th
I’ve been trying to keep my eyes closed more often. maybe if I can’t see her, she can’t see me.
entry #8 - december 19th
I keep finding feathers when I sweep the floors.
the clock reads 3:37 P.M.
I feel trapped.
entry #9 - december 22nd
she follows me everywhere, like a tick stuck to the side of a stray dog.
what does she know? my head hurts, Journal. I want a break.
entry #10 - december 30th
I pleaded with her today. begged her to stop watching. I feel that I’ve shattered a balance that I wasn’t meant to touch, brutalized a fragile vase with my hammer of a self. I didn’t mean to.
I’m sorry.
she’s gone. it’s too quiet. please come back.
there’s a dent in the wall where I threw a book.
I was an idiot.
the tide has receded now, and I am terrified of when it will surge back to me again.
the clock reads 3:37 P.M.
entry #11 - january 3rd
she’s always been here.
as long as I breathe she will be.
I recall oil paintings, long tucked away in locked closets.
mockingbird resplendent.
entry #12 - january 5th
I want nothing more than to sink my teeth into her flesh.
tear away feathers and skin,
crush hollow bones underneath sick hands.
warm blood to wash away the rot deep inside me.
the clock reads 3:37 P.M.
entry #13 - january 6th
there are shards of ceramic under my nails.
embedded in my palms and the soles of my feet.
the chilled, unsympathetic tile of the kitchen floor soothes me.
the clock reads 3:37 P.M.
entry #14 - january 10th
she is back.
I don’t think she was ever gone.
there is a cold peace inside me.
the wind is whispering again. I’ve begun to understand their secrets, I think.
she’s been perched at the foot of my bed. wary but understanding. no longer does she linger solely in the corner of my eyes.
I haven’t stopped sobbing.
entry #15 - january 11th
I apologized.
I pray she will accept it.
I sat out on the porch too long listening to the wind.
the wood is old, it creaks at every touch.
my hands and knees ache as I write this. the heat of summer has long gone, and each night brings a sharper chill.
my watch says it is 3:37 A.M., and she is sitting on the windowsill while I write.
entry #16 - january 13th
she spends so much time watching the clock, as if it confounds her.
Journal, I found old boxes today. I’ve always been a collector of bits and bobs.
in one of them, nestled between half of a wasp’s nest and several small shells,
I found a set of feathers.
pristine, soft, grey and white and black.
identical to hers.
entry #17 - january 14th
we shared blackberries today, and I remembered why the garden was ever green.
she chirped at me, my lips are stained purple, and I hope that is forgiveness.
scabs have formed on my hands and feet,
I’m trying to leave them be.
she still watches me.
entry #18 - january 16th
I don’t know how long I was in the garden.
the clock has been lying to me. since when did I have a clock?
she watched me as I tore the weeds from the ground, ripped ivy and fig from their grasp on the shed and the trees.
I don’t know when my hands began to bleed again.
don’t really care.
she contemplates me, almost. watches tirelessly, at a forlorn king tending to his desolate kingdom with a loving touch he no longer knows how to use.
I will sleep now. I will try again tomorrow.
slower, this time.
entry #19 - january 17th
too tired.
entry #20 - january 18th
still tired.
my body is filled with a deep ache.
I am a cavern.
the clock reads 3:37 P.M.
entry #22 - january 19th
it’s still early morning. the wind nips but I know it is meant affectionately.
I am in the garden.
she is not with me and there is a light on in the house.
she must be resting still. I know she watches me though.
I am softer today.
entry #23 - january 20th
my blood is an act of love, the garden knows it.
I have meticulously removed the trash and the barren remains of long-dead plants.
I am sat here now, Journal, to tell you of something beautiful.
my mint lives on, with a will and strength I envy.
little sweet-smelling sprouts wave in a lazy breeze, and I in turn whispered to the plants the secrets I was taught from the wind.
she watches on, small feet clicking on the brick. the company is soothing.
entry #24 - january 27th
I was digging today– I want to put in a mango tree.
I found a skeleton.
it looks to be of a small bird, but I recognize it as my own.
entry #25 - february 4th
I am still thinking about the skeleton.
entry #26 - february 9th
I can’t seem to find the box with the feathers I mentioned, Journal.
I feel off-kilter.
entry #27 - february 11th
I feel fragile today.
I opened the piano’s lid today, hands still healing and still aching.
playing it is a muscle memory, I slip back into it like a well-fitted glove.
she likes the music, as far as I can tell.
she darts back and forth through the room while I play.
I lit the stove, ate at the table.
my shoulders feel lighter.
I will visit an auntie tomorrow, I’ve decided.
I want to plant again this spring.
entry #28 - february 12th
I am home, with seed corn and beans and squash and six jars of pumpkin puree that my auntie insisted I take.
I feel warm. when did I ever stop reaching out to people?
auntie told me to call again soon, and I think I will. she told me I ought to keep a journal. isn’t that funny? that’s why I have you, Journal.
entry #29 - february 17th
I fixed the clock today. at least I think I did? I don’t know if it was broken.
but it seems to be working right.
the clock and my watch read 11:15 A.M.
she has taken her eyes off of me, but only to preen.
entry #30 - march 30th
oh Journal, I am so sorry for leaving you be so long.
I’ve been caught up in life, and I left you behind without meaning to.
I’ve spent many evenings with family lately. there is a beading workshop next weekend I plan to attend with my cousin.
she comes with me of course. and watches. I don’t think I mind as much though.
entry #31 - april 3rd
she sat in my hands today. I held my breath the entire time, scared of ruining something so beautiful.
the clock reads 3:37 P.M.
entry #32 - april 15th
every day I go into the garden now.
I’ve been tilling the ground, preparing it for the season ahead.
sometimes I lay out there on the grass and do nothing else for hours.
just her and me.
entry #33 - april 17th
she still watches me.
however, it is never silently anymore.
she trills and chirps and barks and warbles and sings all the stories she has learned.
I planted the corn in their mounds today– yes, a tad bit early. I know. I was so excited though.
the wind doesn’t visit as often now, but I always pass on its words.
entry #34 - april 19th
the scabs on my hands and feet have long since healed, some leaving shiny little scars.
I finally ordered new plates too. no more eating everything out of bowls. I splurged a little, got bone china.
don’t think I ever want ceramic plates again.
I’ve gotten specific bowls for her to use too.
thought I might as well.
I caught my own eye in the mirror. I am wearing my great-grandmother’s earrings, worn brass. she is perched on the clock behind me.
it reads 3:38 P.M.
entry #35 - april 21st
she’s begun watching from a distance again. not out of any unkindness, I don’t think.
I miss the closeness though.
entry #36 - may 2nd
the corn has sprouted.
it is beautiful.
the beans and squash will go in soon. the mint has grown wild and tall.
my lemon tree has been blossoming, and honeybees have joined the symphony of the garden.
my hair brushes my shoulders now. I think I’ll let it keep growing.
entry #37 - may 5th
there are certain things that are inseparable, Journal. don’t you think?
that includes endings and beginnings.
may is abuzz. the mornings are still cold, but the garden is so green.
she dances distantly from corn stalk to corn stalk, carried by the occasional wind.
they both sing, and I sing back to them, from my own perch on the porch’s chair.
I’ve begun making mint tea in the mornings.
it’s more of a hand warmer than anything else, but I’ve come to enjoy the taste.
I put in lupine and yarrow recently. I am going to check on it now, as I write this.
she follows me still.
I don’t know what she wants.
that’s alright.
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