I can't find my journals.
The shelf where I believed I kept them is brimming with books - story books, and precious bindings full of hand-wrought emotion and oft gut-wrenching life, but it is not mine. They all belong to my mother. Or at least, they once did. I open a page and a read a tiny bit, and I put it back away. I crack another, flip through, and am glad her pain is over. And I miss her.
In the end, I leave the journals for another day, and strategically place some of the books my mother kept on a different shelf where I know Cadence will find them. I want her to discover them, and to lose herself in those worlds, perhaps find herself along the way, but I don't want to meddle with the mystery by telling her to pick them up. She and her sisters may never know of the late nights that I spend carefully strewing their environment with little bits of magic to discover, and that is how it should be. I want to foster in them the joy of discovery, and in these secret nights, I am merely leaving wonders for them to discover.
And I wonder what silent seeds my mother planted for me that I will never know about.
And in a tiny moment, I know I was loved.