The beautiful memory — not just a memory, but the memory– splashes across the page in black ballpoint ink. This book contains more and more of her story every day. Of course, many others own this same cardinal-red journal with trademark British wit emblazoned on the cover, but hers — well, no one else’s will ever read quite like hers does.
She finds that page and sees spelled out in her own handwriting the glorious summer evening it all began. It was overcast outside, but she was enchanted. She’d just seen something incomparably beautiful. Except it wasn’t the first time she’d seen it, only the first time she’d seen it this way. The expressions are so vivid, she can practically re-live it between the lines. Funny how many words flooded her in a wordless moment.
She turns another page.
The words scramble shakily across the page just as her pen did. She remembers she was nervous, not even sure exactly what to write. She didn’t come up with much, just a breathless exclamation or two. For likely the first time in this entire book, she punctuated the last sentence incorrectly and left it that way. It was a question, and she wrote it like a statement. Perhaps because she knew the answer full well.
The next entry narrates, in more sensible tones, what happened next. A realization. A resignation. An understanding that some things are simply out of reach. But the optimistically sweeping flourish on the last word must have been drawn by a hopeful heart.
An afterthought follows. Five words that change everything. Perhaps someone could fail to understand up to this point, but now that she’s included these five, it’s a real story. There’s no returning to the nameless, faceless grayness of previous introspections. The misty glow of a streetlight lingers around the page just like it lingered around the room where she wrote.
The tale stretches on for pages more, woven through with moments curious and radiant, great and small. Each stroke of the pen strikes a chord of wide-eyed remembering.
The next-to-last page catches her eye because of the margin dotted with dozens of those peculiar little stars she likes to draw. She was counting minutes until something, starting at fifteen, then eight, then five. Waiting. Eyeing the clock.
Why? She remembers.
In the lower left-hand corner, a scribbled phrase captures something she felt in that moment of waiting. Something that had swirled around in her mind since that first proverbial burst of light. Amidst the confetti of stars, she penned just two words: beautiful galaxy. She reads them again and thinks the galaxy as lovely a place to navigate as ever.
Even if she has yet to attain all the eloquence and wit she desires, there is one thing she does not lack.
Her heart is full of wonder.