I wish I would find it, though it’s probably long lost. I know you’re gone, you, your essence, your smell and warmth have vanished from the living realm. But it would soothe me to be reading your words, touching your writing, thinking of your hands on the paper. Thinking of those fingers, the tips of which always seemed a bit too dry. I need to imagine you sitting down and writing, because I know you liked doing it. That’s why you left a poem when you went on. In my mind, I can see your grip on the pen, I am watching your nails (mine look almost like yours, but I am changing them, filing them into a shape of my own) and how they touch the pen. I am reminiscing, and it hurts a bit, but it is sweet. Oh, how I wish I knew you better, I wish I had your voice and your touch stored somewhere. So that I can take it out whenever I feel like my mind can’t hold your memory, and then store you back again only to seek you once more. I miss you. More than I can tell. Not every day. Just when I hear friends talk about their moms, when I hear stories or see people hugged. When I think of foods you liked, or songs you sang. Not every day, not very often, but often enough to make me cry.
I know you left a diary
