The chunk that’s missing

She gave me the journal for Christmas. It stayed empty, just waiting for something to be written in it for a long time. Eventually I picked it up and started pouring my soul into it. And now, my soul is gone.

The other night, I pulled my nightstand’s drawer open so I could pick up the journal and read a poem I had written recently, but found nothing when I reached in. It’s gone, and I have no idea where it went. I took it to Track States with me, but I’m almost certain I brought it home from that and unpacked it when I got home. I called the hotel and left a message on the housekeepers’ machine just in case anything turned up when they cleaned our room on the third floor. I have yet to check the machine to see if they called us and left a message. My mom’s on that mission right now due to my lack of mobility at the moment. But, more of that story later. It’s a good one, I promise.

I prayed to God last night to help me in my search. Yeah, you read right. I prayed. That’s how much this journal means to me. If it’s at the hotel we stayed at, I don’t care, I just want it back. I don’t care if anyone read it; they don’t know me and can’t judge me for it. It bugs me that I only know bits and pieces of the poems in it. I wrote a poem for my dad that’s in it that I wanted to give him for Father’s Day. Well, I couldn’t. I couldn’t find the journal. At first, I was just thinking that it will just turn up. As I thought about it more and more, I realized that it’s possible that it won’t turn up. It might not even be anywhere around where I live; it could be three hours away.

I don’t want to be like Shakespeare when (and if) I get published. He has lost years, and I don’t want any of those included in my biography when I’m dead and gone. I want people knowing the whole story and that’s what bugs me the most. If my poetry gets published, there will be a huge chunk missing from my life if this journal never turns up. I’m not okay with that. I already have one journal that has withered away into the wind (and not by my doing) and I miss being able to read what was in that. I wish I could open that journal one more time.

So please journal, if you’re reading this, come back to me. Poetry just won’t be the same without you.

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