Rose Miller 
It was time to face the music, every time I came close to being ready I backed away with overwhelming grief. How do you pack away a person’s life after they die? How do you just clear out someone’s stuff and wipe away everything they were? Especially a mother? It feels like acceptance and I was far from ready to accept my new reality.
But something was pushing me to start, maybe it was the contradicting need for closure or maybe it was the void I felt inside that needed a distraction. Whatever it was, on this trip to Mom’s house I found myself ready to do more than just collect the mail. This time I managed to open the garage door and climbed in over the old washing machine that blocked my path to the many boxes that stored memories of my childhood and family heirlooms.
I stood in front of a row of boxes, neatly arranged like a Tetris board. I pulled the top box down next to me and blew off the dust. I opened the box, it was filled with papers, I rummaged through it, old bills mostly. I put it aside and opened the next one. Children’s clothes, I moved that one aside too. I opened box after box. “Junk,” I moved the last box aside disappointed. I wiped the sweat from my forehead, there wasn’t anything here of interest to me. Maybe my mom just dumped it all last year when she downsized to the basement?
I turned to leave and then I noticed the bottom cardboard box and right under the big Home Depot letters was scribbled Writings- Rose. I pulled out the box and opened it. A big smile spread across my face.
“She kept it.” I whispered in amazement. I pulled out a stack of colorful letters wrapped in a rubber band and under it, I pulled out journal after journal. It was all there. My eyes welled up with tears. I opened one and sat up on the washing machine, it’s been years since I’d gone through any of this. I randomly opened up a journal and began reading.
One day this will all make sense, I refuse to believe that I suffer for nothing. Mom always says God is preparing me for something big, something I am not yet prepared for. I have to believe that, there isn’t anything else. But what could it be? If I just knew what to look forward to it would be easier to hold on. Mom says when the time is right I will know. For now, I just write, writing for me feels like home, a safe place to pour my heart out and I am grateful to Mom for being my biggest fan…
The tears blurred my vision from reading on but the message was clear and waiting for me all this time. I instantly knew what was coming next. I knew where my passion stemmed from, it was time to go back despite the threats and humiliation I received. This is who I was and he knew that, everyone knew that and that’s why he was doing this to me. But sitting there in the garage reading old journals from years ago reminded me of who I was. Writing was where my strength stemmed from.
“I’m going to do it, Mom. I never should have stopped. Writing is my magic power. How did I lose it?” I hugged the journal and sobbed. “I didn’t want to write without you but look you’re still here with me. I know it made us stronger and I need strength now.” I sighed. “I miss you.”
I carried the box out of the garage and hummed the tune of I’m coming home and for the first time since my mom died the void in my heart felt a bit smaller.
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