The journal. Day 1.

Loom.

An apparatus for making fabric by weaving yarn or thread.

A Loom journal. Designed to weave together parent and child.

I can think of nothing being more appropriately named. For loom it did. Right there on my kitchen table. I found myself watching it out of the corner of my eye as I wandered around my house. I opened it. I closed it. I greatly debated setting it on fire. I sobbed on the floor for awhile. Is the possibility of let down, again, really worth the pain? I let this part of me go. I accepted we are just what we are.

Beings that should have been but just aren’t.

Despite it all, I picked it up. My pen stood poised above the pages for what felt like hours. I read and reread the questions over and over. In the end, I was honest. I decided he would be the one person I didn’t protect from myself. He would know that we seem to carry the same dark spaces. We prefer ourselves to anyone else. For as much as I don’t know him, I’ve always felt I understood him.

I wrote about my dark threads. I wrote about the small memories I have of us together. I kept the fact that I’ve held those memories like they were gold in my muddled brain all these years. He can find out just how unhinged I am later.

I think I’m dragging my feet putting it back in the mail because I will wait anxiously everyday after for its return.