The Empty Journal

an abandoned smokehouse on the home place whose smoky fires had long grown cold was a storehouse for broken dreams forgotten memories and blond fantasies of times past we used the place to play our children's games when old ones rocked the porch and paced the day like molasses from the mule turned cane mill down by the pond we invented mysteries there when none presented I recall I went there all alone on a romantic day and found discarded in a tray of family treasure my favorite book I opened it and took a look it was an empty diary a journal that the lady of the house intended always to begin and end but never found the time to write an idle line there were too many meals to cook too many clothes to wash too many times the rains were slight or just as bad a flood times when her only plans were to bolster her husband's against both their doubts and yet he died then she the book was set aside untouched my favorite leaving me to put upon its empty face what I would love death an embrace