Lost and Found

During my really crappy week, I somehow lost my glasses in my own home.  I feel around 73 years old to admit this.  After two days, I was fed up, and started tearing my bedroom apart- the last place I remembered having them.  I moved furniture, disturbed the dust bunnies, and realized since Cory died my only ability to organize is vertical.  I live in stacks:  stacks of books, stacks of journals, stacks of clothes, stacks of hats...I've fashioned a sort of winding pathway around my room that resembles a Candyland boardgame.  Find your way to my resting place, if you can.

I eventually found my glasses, flung unceremoniously to the floor on the side of my bed.  Seriously?  They were in plain sight while I had forced myself to go through everything I choose to keep near me while I sleep- piles of Cory's stuffed animals, Cory's journals, the condolence card from her psychatrist, the fifty or so hats I'd accumulated that first winter during my manic online shopping period.

Cory started keeping a journal with little mementos in it right before the accident.  I last looked at it a few days after she died, sobbing my heart out as I noticed her shaky handwriting only went about four pages, and then there was nothing...and a whole book left unwritten.

I sat down on my bed with it, surrounding by my piles of creature comforts, and took a really good look.

 She started it on the first of July.  The last entry was on the third.  The date for fourth of July was written in, but no entry- she must've been really tired that night.  And then Cory died on July 5th at 4:21 p.m.

A couple of years ago, I noticed these same things and went absolutely beserk.
This time, I went back and paid attention to her words.  "Movies with Mommy are the best."  "I love Mommy"  "It was so much fun at the carnival.  We rode everything, and screamed like caged monkeys!"
"I had sooo much fun!  I love everyone!"

She was happy.  She was healthy.  She was well.

Not a peep about the voices.  No depression.  Just typical Cory Girl, "I'm going to watch some Food Network and retire for the evening"

As soon as Tim got home from work, I called him to see what I'd found.  Before his depression lifted, he would have made up some lame excuse or just ignored me.  Instead, he came over and took the journal in his hands.  He opened it, and without a breath between us, he read the pages.

"I know it's kind of hard to read- "  I started out.

"No."  he said.  "No, I like reading it.  You know why?  There's nothing bad in these pages.  She really was getting better.  How many people have something like this to chronicle their loved ones last days?  It's priceless."

I looked at him, and nodded.  "Screaming like caged monkeys...that was Cory."

"Yes, it sure was!"  A small smile floated unsteadily on the wave of pain that crossed his face.

It sure was.