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Dear Journal,
Today was my first date. Since it was an unusually warm day, Michael took me out to the beach, where we had Cokes (in bottles!); he even prepared the sandwiches himself. I had offered to bring something, but I think he was afraid I would show him up, being the master chef that I am. He knew I loved home-grown tomatoes and homemade bread, so he had went to the Farmer's Market and bought some of the juiciest red tomatoes I have ever tasted and baked sourdough bread (my favorite) in his mother's bread machine. It touches my heart how he did everything he could to please me, and he did please me very much.
More than he'll ever know, I'm sure.
Why did she have to die before I could believe her? he cries inwardly.
While we ate, he had told me the story of when he was thirteen and was bedridden for a week with the flu. Well, he had been rather puny at that age (which I cannot imagine!) and was extra-sensitive to the drugs they had given him, so he was pretty out of it. He made me swear not to tell another living soul, but I am sure he would not mind if I told you, dear journal. He was delusional at the time from all the mind-altering medication (at least I hope it was from the medication!).
Well, anyway, he wanted to look like an angel and got it in his head that angels didn't have hair in a certain sensitive part of their body; so he cut all of it off and whatever he could not cut, he shaved, so let us just say he was incapacitated for about a week until it began growing back out...
He chuckles inside. He had forgotten telling that story.
There were several more entries, but he skims to that awful Christmas when he had forgotten to buy her a gift. It had slipped his mind, what with his grandfather having a stroke and his father losing his job, and about a million other things that were going on at the time. Not to mention it had been a cold and miserable night. It hadn't been just cold, but bitter cold, the wind like daggers of ice cutting one to the bone.
His mom had baked gingerbread men for the family to snack on that night (so they would stay away from the mincemeat pie she had baked specifically for tomorrow). They had turned out a little crispy (or well-done, as his father had put it nicely). Though the cookies could have been used for rooftop shingles, the house had a nice ginger smell nevertheless.
At the thought of the sight of the meager amount of gifts under the Christmas tree, he was reminded of their Family Home Evening activity several days before. Their activity had been to give a gift you could come up with in thirty minutes or less. He had had to come into contact with his creative side, which wasn't easy, but he gladly accepted the challenge.
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