The Journal

I had been keeping journals for years, writing my feelings on paper. I even asked my friends to write in them from time to time.

Siesta’s paw prints made it into one, her tiny little toes and her soft pads that I kissed. I remember painting them one by one until I had all four feet on the page. She stood there patiently, not knowing what I was doing but standing there just the same trusting me completely. I was only seven at the time and I used different colored paint for each paw. One was bright pink, another pale blue, then the third was lime green and the last was purple. I also wrote several poems about how much I loved my little dog.

There were journals stacked up in my closet dating back to the time I learned to write. I used to keep the current one between my mattress and box spring, always starting on the first page that thus journal contained personal information. I worried that my sister might find them and read all about me. Never in my wildest dreams did I consider anyone else might read them.My journals were for my eyes only.

I came home from Kate’s one afternoon that summer and Mom was standing waiting for me at the back door, arms crossed with an angry look on her face. I knew something was wrong.

“I read it.” That’s all she said. I immediately knew what she was talking about. She looked like a mad woman, her eyes glazed, her pupils dilated and that frosted hair no longer in a perfect cupcake on top of her head but flattened and sticking up on the sides. I didn’t know whether to walk inside or make a run for it and keep running.

“Get in here,” she demanded. My feet moved. This was it. I would never recover from this. I felt completely exposed, naked, turned inside out. I hesitantly stepped toward her, noticing every stitch on her nasty pink housecoat with the frayed white lace collar. I felt my heart beat quicken and heard my breath as my world was about to collapse around me. The scene was even worse than I could have imagined. She threw her hands in the air, a used Kleenex flying out of the pocket, and ran around in circles. A sound came out of her of sheer terror, the sound a mother makes when someone they love dies, a guttural sound. I stood there watching her. Then she managed to pull herself back together.

 “Go to your room,” was all she said. She never sent me to my room before. That’s when I realized how it happened. She had bought my older sister Ellen and me new bed spreads that day. The happy, yellow and white polka dotted matching comforters had dust ruffles which meant she pulled the mattresses apart and found my journal.

I sat there on that cheerful yellow comforter in stunned silence. The white polka-dots on the bright yellow background had created so much grief for me that I hated them. How ironic, I thought. A blanket that’s supposed to keep me warm and comfortable at my most vulnerable time when I was unconscious, asleep, actually uncovered me completely. I hated it. I wanted to rip it up and the dust ruffle too. I wanted to throw salt on it and burn it. 

At that moment, the door opened. I saw Mom’s hand as she placed Siesta in the room then closed the door. Looking back, I guess I was surprised that I received this peace offering from my mother after what she had read. I knew what I had written could only mean the worst possible scenario for me. Very, very bad. Maybe she was offering Siesta like in the movies when they offer prisoner's last dinner before the execution. Siesta was my final comfort before my sentence was to be announced. Whatever it was, Siesta put her ears back and ran over to me, wagging her tail, greeting me as if nothing was wrong. I was so happy to see her, to hug her, to pick her up and let her lick my face.

“Oh Siesta, what am I going to do?” She rolled over and motioned for me to scratch her stomach.

“Even a belly rub isn’t going to make this better,” I said as I rubbed her tummy, her back leg going a mile a minute in ecstasy. A woodpecker was busy working on a tree outside my bedroom window. How I wished I could shrink up and hide in the hole he was making. But that was not possible. My penance was being grounded until I was 18.