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The Journal
Dear Gussie,
I have decided to call you Gussie instead of mom. It stands for your middle name, Augusta. A middle name is hidden, like the inside you. So when I call you by your middle name, I am speaking to that inside part of you, the part that you would never let anyone see. When I write, I show you the inside of me.
It seems scary to be writing the word "mom." It's just too much for me, because you never were much of a mom, no offense.
Don't get me wrong. I am grateful to you. You had the heart of a lion. When I was trapped in an underground tunnel and chased by a crazy person, just to name two of my adventures, I survived. I couldn't have done it without you and that lion's heart of yours. It's inside me now and I know that it is your gift to me.
This journal is my gift to you. I love this journal. I love the beautiful green leather and the pages edged in gold. I love the smell of it and I love the feel of it. I love to just sit here and caress the paper. I wouldn't admit that to anyone in person. But in the privacy of my soul, I can write it down. It's like having a friend you can always confide in. It's like having a screen against loneliness.
I wish Grandpa hadn't told me that you died in that car crash. I'm 12 now and live with Grandpa in a mountain town called Windover Lake. You would love it here. I live in Grandpa's attic. I'm high up and when I look out the window, I am surrounded by the green of the pine trees. When the sun hits the lake, it looks like sparkly diamonds shining on sapphire.
I still have my "Lone Ranger" lunch box where I keep all my treasures- the tiny ornaments from the little tree we had that last Christmas - the flowers Grandpa gave me for my birthday (even though they are all dried up now), and my Mercury dime. My most prized treasure is your pearl ear rings. Don't worry, I know they aren't real. But I know how much you loved them. They meant something to you deep down.
Another one of my treasures is this pen I'm using. Grandpa gave it to me. It has my initials on it: JR, Jennifer Rand. When it glides over the clean white paper, something goes through me. A thrill runs up my arm right into my heart. It's like a hush comes over me and goes deep, real deep.
So, Gussie, I am writing this journal and I'm making you a promise. When I stop having this hush come over me, I'll stop writing and that will be that. And oh, I want to tell you about the murderer I caught.
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