Lost Journals

To write this novel I have to remember everything.

Remember is a funny word. Re-member. It's like placing body parts - members - back on the body in some new sort of configuration.

I wonder what I've forgotten, what I can not handle to re-member. I've kept a journal since I lost Sean so that I can piece together my life but I was incapable of writing during that time. All I have is fragments of conversations to piece my life back together with. Some days I'm flooded with memories, other days I can barely recall his face - these are the days I weep. These are the days I pour through old journals looking for notes, any brief reminder of his voice.

It is these days his absence is like the sky - spread over everything.

I'm looking for a shadow of the event - some dark spot of memory remaining in the cobwebs of my mind. When I'm feeling brave I forage the dark places for scraps of explanation with which I could forge a whole memory. These shadows haunt my dreams - tossing and turning in my sleep, waking to terrorizing visions.

Things I still need to write:
Seeing Steve at the doctor's office
Christmas discussing ruination of marriages
Learning about my sister
Dave's death
Gravestone rubbings