I had the best notebooks in the world. My eight-year-old eyes could attest to that. They were filled with stories of my childhood – stories that are real and stories that are made-up. There were pictures from magazines and newspapers and from other sources I could not remember. I just know that when something looked beautiful and fitting for a story, I cut them and pasted them on the pages of my pretty notebooks.
My mother used to scold me for cutting beautiful pictures. She said I destroyed them and I often said sorry, but in the back of my mind, I was pleased because I have found lovely pictures for my stories.
There were doodles and drawings at the sides and covers of my beautiful notebooks. I don’t know why there were drawings there; I just know that I used to love drawings and I was good at it, too. I had several awards to prove that so, until I stopped…
My notebooks were secret notebooks. They weren’t supposed to be secret, but for the stories that were “bad” and naughty according to mama. Mama, who pried and secretly read my writings.
I would’ve gladly placed my notebooks on the desk beside my bed for easy access, but I was afraid of judgment and parental scrutiny and interrogation. I was ill-disposed to defend myself then, for I couldn’t tell my mother and father that some of the things I wrote in my pretty notebooks were made-up, and some of the truth that were in them were genuine and honest feelings. Not every “bad” thing written on the pages were acted out or acted upon. Most of them were mere thoughts, curiosities, imaginings, and well… exaggerated stuff, but mere products of my ingenuity nonetheless.
How could they not have thought of that hitherto – my parents?
My beautiful notebooks. They are all gone now. Fires have ravaged those precious pages and I could not do anything. I merely watched as the fiery tongues licked and melted paper…