Yesterday I was listening to a radio interview with a lady named Judy whose mother had recently died after a lengthy illness. The mother told Judy just before she died that she was leaving Judy her collection of personal journals, but that Judy could not look at them until after she actually died. Judy was shocked and excited. She had never known that her mother had kept journals, and could hardly wait to see what her mother had to say. What had her life been like? What did she think about current events? What did she think of her family? Judy had been trying to find out this info from her mother for years, but her mother was a very private person that did not easily open up about anything. In fact, most of Judy's adult life had been spent trying to gain her mother's approval and get her to open up about ANYTHING. Reading her mother's journals would provide at least some closure and insight into a woman that Judy barely knew.
It took Judy about a month after her mother's funeral to finally face the task of looking into the journals. She waited until she was alone in the house, and found the journals hidden in the back of her mom's closet exactly where her mom had said they would be. There were 3 shelves full, each on covered with some type of fabric. It was easy to tell which ones were the older ones, because they were dusty and more faded. Not knowing exactly where to start, Judy carefully chose one covered in red gingham and opened it slowly. The first page was empty. So was the second page. And so was every page after that. She looked through every single journal, and each one was empty. Judy was devastated, and can not figure out what her mom was trying to say to her, and why she even kept the books if she never wrote in them.
I am fascinated by this story, and have been trying to figure it out myself, not having the benefit of knowing anyone involved. Did she not think she had anything to say? Did she not think anything was important enough? Did she realize she had all kinds of stuff to say, but never got around to it? Was she just too tired? Maybe she didn't think anyone else would care. Maybe she just kept putting it off until it was too late. I don't know, but it is such a sad, sad story to me. Poor Judy. I guess she will spend the rest of her life wondering what it all meant, and never knowing how much she meant to her mother.