Sitting amid the chaos of discarded wrapping paper and ribbon, I held the box … delaying its opening for a precious moment, savoring the tingle of anticipation. Then slowly I lifted the lid, peeping under the corner … and a gasp of sheer joy left my lips as I tossed the lid aside.
The diary was bright pink – hot pink it was called in those days – with a gleaming brass lock, the shiny key hanging from a blue ribbon. An impish little girl accompanied by a sloppily drawn puppy adorned the cover, each bathed in psychedelic hues. Eagerly, I inserted the key in the tiny opening, unlocking the portal to the world of wonder waiting to be created there. Inside, each rectangular page was boldly headed with a date for each day of the year. Below each date stretched an expanse of blank blue lines with the tiniest spacing imaginable.
At once, I set off in search of the perfect writing implement, anxious to make my mark. Proudly and carefully, I inscribed my badge of ownership on the flyleaf. For a moment, I closed the cover, holding the book close to my chest, my ten-year-old heart somehow knowing that this volume was much more than glue and paper. Almost reverently, I again opened the book. Hands smoothed across the pages, feeling the texture of the simple thin paper beneath fingers already dancing to words yet unwritten.
“Dear Diary, today was my tenth birthday, the day I got you… the best present ever.”