“Is that a diary?” He pointed at the little black book that I had dropped on the table. “What’s the point?”
I looked down at the leather bound book. It was black, and held shut by a piece of black elastic attached to the back binding. Although shut, I knew its pages were unlined, and the grey ribbon attached to the spine was marking the third page.
Where I had stopped.
I’ve been asked that question many times. I’ve even asked it of myself. I’ve had plenty of time to think about it. I’ve even written about it–about why I write things down. I gave him the answer that I finally decided on.
“If you don’t write something down,” I say, “you’ve lost a day of your life forever. You can’t remember everything.”
He counters. “What if nothing happens–what if that day wasn’t worth remembering?”
“Something happens every day that is worth remembering.”
“That’s the thing. Those stories are better told when embellished by memory.”
“Who says that the written word is truth? Are historical records truth?”
With that, he smiled and turned to the student scheduling his appointments. “Invite him back. We need to finish our discussion about truth.”
And then he walks off. I turn to her and smile, because to tell the truth, she was the reason I was there in the first place.