When I was a young girl,

My gran would sit me on her lap,

One the porch swing outside her house.

And with the midday scorching our skin,

She would read to me stories of her youth.

And when she got too sick to read to me,

I would sit by her bed,

And with the window swung open wide

We would listen to the sounds of the children playing across the street,

And the cars whizzing by our little street,

As I read her the stories of her youth

From the same old leather bound notebook.

And when she died, I would sit by myself,

Alone in my room,

With the door and curtains closed tight,

And read her stories aloud,

And remember what her voice sounded like,

Weaving in and out of those same words.

When I was still young enough to sit on her lap,

And she was still young enough to sit up and tell me her stories,

She gave me a piece of advice that I have never forgotten.

Child, she said,

One day, you, like me, will be old and wilted.

She paused to shake away my reassurances that, no,

She wasn't really that old.

One day, you will be old and wilted.

Your memory, like the corners of an old photograph, will start to fade.

And when your grandchildren come asking for stories of the good ol' days,

You will find yourself repeating to them the same one you told on their last visit.

And when that happens,

You will wish you had taken the time to write down everything you could,

When you still could.

She was gone by the end of the next summer,

But I never forgot her words to me.

The day of her funeral, I asked my parents to take a detour on our way home,

And we bought my first journal.

I sat down on our porch that evening,

And with the glow from our front hall spilling through the open door and illuminating my page,

I started writing.

A few months ago, your mother,

And my daughter,

Gave birth to her first born.

I came home from the hospital that day and began scouring my attic

For the boxes of all the journals I had ever kept.

Over the past few months, I've made my way through all of them.

The following pages are a retelling of my life.

Although it is not my journals in their entirety,

Nor is it in its original format,

It includes all the stories that I hope to tell you myself,

One day.

So, my child,

I hope that one day, when I am no longer with you,

You will be able to look at this book and smile,

At the memories and the lessons it contains,

And know that no matter where I am,

I love you.