Hard Copy
One of Jason's last requests to me when we talked about his final wishes was "Destroy my journals." He didn't say when, so I used that small loophole to quote Jason at the first memorial. His fight with leukemia was recorded in two special journals he'd used for that purpose. I didn't even read them to pull out what I wanted. I did a scan for keywords and just chose those randomly.
Today I have destroyed all the journals except one, the one I quoted. I need to write out the parts I read. I am creating a script for all the speakers' recollections and readings at the first memorial. The video that has just been finished.
Never ask me to destroy someone's handwriting again. I didn't read any of these journals. Most of them were written long before I was part of his life. Every page I had to look at ever so briefly just reminded me of all the correspondence over the years that contained Jason's distinctive handwriting, whether a card, a letter, or simply "Buy milk" or "Gone out for a while. Love, Me." The later journals were during our relationship and every time I noticed my name, I wept a little.
In a few minutes, the recycling will be taken outside and the ripped up pages will never be seen again as someone's innermost thoughts. Other than my own reactions to the handwriting, the destruction of his thoughts is what upsets me. I realize that the journals possibly contain painful memories of Jason's, and I'd have to have read them to find the inspirations like the ones I saw in the leukemia journals.
This deliberate act of requested destruction is the most concrete example of how Jason's brilliant mind is now closed off to me, and all I have are the comfort of the memories, which might blur and change and be forgotten over time.
Today I have destroyed all the journals except one, the one I quoted. I need to write out the parts I read. I am creating a script for all the speakers' recollections and readings at the first memorial. The video that has just been finished.
Never ask me to destroy someone's handwriting again. I didn't read any of these journals. Most of them were written long before I was part of his life. Every page I had to look at ever so briefly just reminded me of all the correspondence over the years that contained Jason's distinctive handwriting, whether a card, a letter, or simply "Buy milk" or "Gone out for a while. Love, Me." The later journals were during our relationship and every time I noticed my name, I wept a little.
In a few minutes, the recycling will be taken outside and the ripped up pages will never be seen again as someone's innermost thoughts. Other than my own reactions to the handwriting, the destruction of his thoughts is what upsets me. I realize that the journals possibly contain painful memories of Jason's, and I'd have to have read them to find the inspirations like the ones I saw in the leukemia journals.
This deliberate act of requested destruction is the most concrete example of how Jason's brilliant mind is now closed off to me, and all I have are the comfort of the memories, which might blur and change and be forgotten over time.