A long time ago when I was younger, I kept a journal. Just the one you understand, which is why it has always stood out in my memory as being more than a little special.
The occasion it covered was special too. A family holiday, something we hadn’t done before and would never do anything quite like it again. Although we didn’t know that at the time.
I have carried this tattered little notebook with me through all the years, kept it safe when not much else survived the journey. I always intended to develop it into a proper story. As a journal, it is hardly more than a collection of observations, made in the midst of all the glorious chaos of that magical time. It does, however, chronicle all the dates and places, which will guide my memory down that almost forgotten lane.
As yet is has no title, and rummaging around in the darkest corners of my mind is slowing the creative juices down to a trickle, making writing difficult. It seems so much harder to write a personal memoir, than creating something out of nothing. Looking back, it is hard to believe that our mainly dysfunctional family did any of those things and lived to remember them during those two special weeks in that long ago summer.
I can feel the memories awakening, each one beginning to grow, eager to be remembered. It will be an emotional experience, reliving all those wonderful moments. Moments that were never to happen again. So many of our dreams are only realised the once, and although this is better than never happening at all, they are so much more emotional for their brief life…
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