I set the journal in my lap, and take a deep breath before I open it. I run my fingers along the pages and decide I need more coffee before I get into this. I pick up my cup and take a big sip. Then I take another. I press my fingers into the cloth binding so hard that the cross hatched weave pattern is impressed in my skin. Okay, time to open this book. I take another sip of coffee, balance the mug in my lap, and flip open the front cover.
The blue ink from the cloth binding has bled onto the front page, tinting it slightly. Mom made little doodles of different things in the margins. Different drawings of leaves and some dogs, mostly large dogs that look like huskies. In the center, she had written “Anna Jane Holland” in a handwriting that looks so much like hers does now, though somewha
