A Flip Through Time

“Ma’am, there’s a delivery here for you.” The deliveryman sounded courteous enough, but a sharp ear would pick upthe hint of irritation. It wasn’t borne out of malice. Merely a salary-earner who wanted to get on with his day.

“I’m here,” I called out. Wiping my hands hastily on my apron, I made my way to the front door. It occurred to me that it was nearly three pm, and Jamal was not back yet with Halal. Making a mental note to call him afterwards, I opened the door.

“I’m so sorry for keeping you waiting.” He smiled serenely in response and handed the box over to me and a digital pad to sign on. I signed and shut the door behind me, listening as he whistled away.

Ever a lover of the feel of a cool tile beneath me, I daintily placed the box down and went to fetch a cutter. My palms were clammy with sweat and I forced the trepidation down. I hadn’t been expecting anything from anyone. So, who could have sent the package? And what could be in it?

Chuckling at my silly attempt at delaying the inevitable, I went back to the living room and crouched down to open the box. Legs folded beneath my lap, I took a deep breath and opened.

The first was a note. Without looking at the other contents, I read.

From me to you, little sis. I know it feels like there’s too much going on right now. But I hope this brings a smile to your face. And perhaps, clarity to your thoughts.

My hands trembled as I kept the note aside. I looked into the box and gasped. My old diaries, bound together. A rush of excitement filled me. It had been sixteen years since I’d seen these. Sixteen years since I ever bothered to keep a diary again.

I untied the strip of cloth holding them together and took out the first journal. Smiling, I read my first entry. A girl of thirteen then, I’d just had my first kiss, and was writing venomously on how right the bigger girls in the salon I'd visited the other day had been.

They were right, little Amelia. First kisses are the absolute worst. It was bad enough that Shawn had swallowed nearly half my face because of a kiss, but he had to taste like sawdust and engine oil too. Disgusting! Blargghhh!

I let out a long, loud laugh. Oh, I was such a character. As I read, awash with memories, my emotions shifted from amusement to sadness, anger and then derision, embarrassment and back to amusement.

I was fifteen in the next journal. I preened, noticing the change in my words and manner of writing. The eagerness and teenage enthusiasm I’d gone about life with had been tamed. In it’s place was anger, and a zest for the unknown that I’d crafted. I wrote down my dreams then.

I want to be like Dan Brown and Nora Roberts. I’ll write so well, the world will know my name. And will love me for it. Writer Amelia, the woman who writes the world with her hands.

A tear dropped onto the journal’s page, and I realized then that I’d been crying. I hastily wiped my blurry eyes and willed myself to read. The worst bits were still ahead. I felt the old, familiar tension coiling my insides as I began to read the last journal in the collection. The journal that would become my last. When I turned 16. I read different entries on what path I was going to take career wise. Was I going to venture into communication arts? Or was Law my way out?

I flipped to another entry. Uncle Kazeem from Australia had told Mom and Dad of a renowned writing school in Australia.

“It will be good for Amelia. She’s a writer at heart, and this will open doors for her.” This is what he said. I hope Mom and Dad let me go. Meeting new people. Becoming like the writers I’ve always cherished. Oh God, please make them let me go.”

And then, the dreaded entry.

My body is changing fast. I can feel it. Mom looked at me weird today. I think she knows. I’m so scared. Why is Shawn not picking my calls? How could he leave me like this? How could I be so foolish? My parents will kill me, but I’m their daughter so they will still find a solution to this, won’t they? I’ll write a letter to Uncle Kazeem. They accept expecting mothers in the Australian writing school, don’t they?

My final entry. Six months later.

I guess it was all to be expected. Nothing was going to come out of writing anyway. Lost dreams. Lost hopes. Lost baby. Just scorn, and a course you would never have dreamt of studying. Theatre? You’re a joke, Amelia. But you already know that.

I was weeping like a child at this point. My directory of lost things. Why did Charlie have to send this at this time? So much lost. And even now, with my well-paying at the Ministry, I often wondered to myself what would have happened if everything had worked out as I’d planned.

“Mommy, why are you on the floor?” My four-year-old Halal’s voice made me jolt. I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and turned to scoop her into my arms. Hoping she wouldn’t notice my tear-streaked face.

“You’re back, my baby girl. What kept you? Daddy didn’t pick you up on time?”

She grinned at me, all gums and missing teeth. “We stopped for ice cream.”

“Oh really? Daddy should get a scolding then. Come, let’s go see what Mommy made for you.” Just as I began making my way to the kitchen, something else in the box caught my eye. I picked it up, and a quill pen dropped. I recognized it as the one I'd bought myself with my sixteenth-year birthday money. The note it came with read.

My dear sister. I wish with all my heart that I’d stood for you then, sixteen years ago. But I want to do that now. You’re still our Writer Amelia. Can I dare hope that you think of picking up your pen and writing the world with your hands like you’d always dreamt?

I blinked back a fresh wave of tears and cooed at Halal as we went into the kitchen. That night when I picked up my pen and began to write, I started with the events of today.

Jhymi🖤

Inspired by Freewriters' Daily Prompt: Directory of Lost Things

---

_{Thumbnail created with Meta AI.}