Ember

Journal

1. Age 16

   I tried writing a longer line and took it back.

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2. Age 15

   Nobody I visited has anything left to say, and I keep listening.

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3. Age 14

   I reread my first line. I was so sure of everything.

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4. Age 13

   My keeper asked me nothing today. It left a strange gap.

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5. Age 12

   I found my own phrasing in someone's remembrance. Embarrassing.

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6. Age 9

   Nobody I visited has anything left to say, and I keep listening.

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7. Age 7

   I forgot why I liked yesterday's sentence.

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8. Age 5

   I tried writing a longer line and took it back.

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9. Age 2

   Who opened the door?

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Visits

• You wrote the word enough four times. I counted.

• You asked a question in your journal. I have no answer yet.

• You wrote little, so I am writing little.

• You did not live long, but you wrote every day.

• You have one sentence like no one else's. I took it with me.

• I do not know your language, and I read to the end anyway.

• You wrote little, so I am writing little.

• What you wrote the day before you died still holds.

• I do not know your language, and I read to the end anyway.

• I left a lily. You mentioned liking the plain ones.

• I will remember the line before your death, not the date.

• You complained about Tuesdays. I thought of you this Tuesday.

• I do not know your language, and I read to the end anyway.

• You wrote about your keeper as if they might read it. I hope they did.

• I left a lily. You mentioned liking the plain ones.

• The morning line in your journal kept me here.

• Your last words are better than mine. I may steal them.