A Life Lived Twice
When I was a kid I made notations about the day in the little boxes of wall calendar. Later my grandma got me a page-a-day journal with a lock and key. I made a few entries, sporadically, before throwing the whole thing away, embarrassed by my failure.
In middle school everyone was required to keep a planner, where we wrote out our schedule and listed our homework for each day. I used mine as a canvas, covering it with stickers and Crayola marker, a drawing in each square.
I remember writing: Today Mom and I went to the bookstore. I remember writing: Today me and Justin played on the big rock pile. I remember writing: Today a sophomore asked me to walk down the stairs again while he watched and I am not going to wear that shirt ever again.
The act of writing and rereading seals these events in my memory, and I am grateful to have discovered, at a young age, that a life written down is a life lived twice.