FEATURED POETRY: A 124-Day Journal by Lilah Gran

Boy, 1989

One last glance before I walk away.

Just one last glance.

My journal - a plain, white, palm-size notebook, with the word "love" on the cover, laid frozen and untouched at one corner of our school library's second floor.

It is my secret hideout.

I hope she finds it.

I hope Char finds it.

She didn't.

She won't.

Girl, 2014

Left and right.

Up and down.

No CCTV.

A small, battered, golden-brown notebook lays frozen and untouched on the tiled floor of the school library's second floor.

Left and right.

Up and down.

No one's looking.

I grabbed it.

Flipping it back and forth, I realized at some point the notebook must have been white. The spine is broken and some of the pages are torn off. The word "love" on the cover is almost worn out.

The word wasn't printed there.

It was written there.

Someone wrote it there.

Probably with a good quality marker, for it lasted this long and it's still readable.

I turned to the first page because curiosity is a thing. And the thing is killing me. Maybe I'll be lucky enough to find the owner's initial scribbled at the first page, or the last page. People do that. They constantly seek the necessity to name things; to own things. People take advantage of our small autonomy over life.

If life knocks you down,

Knock it back.

And if it notices you knocking back -

Gloat.

C H A R

Char.

A name?

A comment?

A code?

I would have appreciated it more if it's written more like this: TO CHAR. At least that would distinguish a name from a code.

Left and right.

Up and down.

Front and back.

I am alone.

CHAR is a name, I have decided.

It is a name.

Because it's my name.

Man, 1994

"Where are you going?"

A voice asked.

A voice raised.

"I'm leaving!"

My voice responded.

My voice raised.

I stride off, pushing back tears. I expected her to stop me, but she didn't. I have no idea if she's crying or cussing, or even breathing, because my car is drifting off. And I didn't dare look back.

She and I never got along. 

She and I were a mess.

She and I had been together long.

She and I are over.

Woman, 2014

One last glance before I walk away.

Just one last glance.

His journal - a plain, white, palm-size notebook, with the word "love" on the cover, laid frozen and untouched at one corner of my alma mater's library.

It is his secret hideout.

I found it there.

And now I'm returning it.

Girl, 2014

My Mother's name is Jamie.
Jamie named me Char.

Char is not short for anything.

It's a stand alone.

I spent the last three hours reading the mysterious journal.

Page by page.

Word per word.

The word "love" on the cover isn't just for display. Perhaps in every ten sentences, the word "love" was mentioned in the journal.

A 124-day diary.

A 124-day relationship.

A 124-day confession.

And the dates roll back since 1989.

An old love.

An old testimony.

The last entry is a quest: 

I'll be what I am.

A millennium of power.

I'll be who I am.

An eagle with a crown.

I'll be where I am.

Caput Mundi.

I'll be what I came to be.

A month named after me.

I'll be where you found me.

On a silver day.

On it's very last day.

Man, 2014

Expectations are the most evil of all. It drives to paranoia, disappointment, and depression. However, it also drives to many surprises. A surprise in which I realized: things have their own way on catching up with us.

A girl.

A girl stood.

A girl I must imagined twenty-five years ago.

The face of my ex-girlfriend.

The face of the woman I didn't know was pregnant.

The face of the woman I love.

The face of the woman I failed.
And the face of the woman I left.

This girl held my journal.

The journal I made up.

The journal I named after a girl I don't know.

The journal I named after a girl that didn't exist.

Until now.

"Dad?" she called, tears building up in her eyes. "You're my Dad, right? I know you! I know because I've seen your picture! I know because Mother kept it with her at all times."

She and I shared an embrace that must have lasted overnight. And then I asked, "What's your name?"

"Char," she whispered. And I can see both our hearts smiling.

I wrote the journal seeking the perfect love; a love I expected over my ex-girlfriend. I didn't find it then. But I found it now.