Reminiscence

The Journal

A young man at the age of nineteen sat on the curb amidst the dreariest part of town, a place that which hope had abandoned long ago. The relentless breeze whipped back his black hair, as he lay his chin on his palm, elbow tickling the edge of the worn-out area from his knees on his jeans, his Timberlands seemingly being the only thing keeping his frail, malnourished frame from drifting away in the wind.  He let his brown trench coat carelessly whip about him and gulp down the puddle of water by his feet, as it was the only thing covering his bare arms other than the white t-shirt he wore underneath. Lost in thought, he tapped the capped end of his ballpoint pen against his cheek, whilst a small smile made way onto his face. Gripping his notebook with his other hand tightly, he sat up and tucked it inside his coat in an attempt to protect it from the drizzle falling from the sky, which he carelessly let land on his face, giving it a dewy, ethereal look. Eyes glazed, he let his feet take him to the only place he could write in peace, the soup kitchen, as the rain had robbed him of the right to write in the fresh air.

The leather-bound book was his most prized possession. Flipping through its yellowed pages, sitting at one of the old, worn down tables, his heart was warmed like a child given a cup of hot cocoa after playing hours on end in the snow. His most fond memories were attached to he pages. Gazing at the small, childish handwriting, he stares at his first entry when he was six years old, two years after his father had died. These scribbles were of pure anguish, having to celebrate Thanksgiving without him. Everyone in school wrote of their family, being the foremost thing to be thankful of. And here he was, alone with his mother, sitting in a musty car, sharing a rotisserie chicken sold cheap at the grocery store down the street from where his home (their car) was usually parked. 

He recalled the last Christmas spent with his dad in their old apartment, the memory hazy yet filled with unparalleled joy from two years ago, a gaping hole in his heart, tears splashing onto the pages and tearing at the ink on the paper. His mother had run away from home to marry his father, a man with not a single penny to spare but a heart made of pure gold. The Christmas rush had taken him as a victim, his corpse mangled in the company car he was provided. The car that held so much promise in his poor future had only visited his meager condo twice. His mother, left alone with hardly any money, balanced two jobs on her fragile shoulders in order to pay off a little Hundai and buy him food and clothes once the landlord finally kicked them out. Food stamps don't give a growing teenager many options, after all, resulting in a grumpy, hungry child. 

Yet his mother's quotes never failed to bring the much-needed rays of sunshine in his life. Her words were jotted down on one page, another filled with fond memories of his dad, back and forth, in an attempt to build within himself a sense of belonging, an identity to who he truly was. Jungkook's life was written in verse, and told of tales and emotions unbeknownst to anyone but the walls overlooking his shoulder. Writing was his outlet, his closest companion to whom he revealed his deepest secrets, his unaltered thoughts. His hidden talent that no one knew about, unveiling the profound thoughts of a man who no one talked to. Other than a certain volunteer who noticed when the boy, who always visited the kitchen in the rain to write, disappeared without a trace for a couple months. Little did she know that his life had fell apart once more, and that she would eventually be the glue that helped rebuild him.

***

Solemn, he walked up to his mother's tombstone, placing another letter, as was his ritual doing previously only for his father. Sniffling, he whispered, "You told me that my words were what you looked forward to most in the day, since I hardly ever let a word escape my lips." He lets out a small chuckle. 

"You wanted me to heal the world around us, just as you said I healed you, gave you purpose, gave you happiness, you said. Reminded you of Papa, with my soft bunny smile. I never really learned to talk, I only know how to write. You know how much I love you, right? How much I miss you?

Ma, I've never been alone before. I hate being alone, you know that. What am I supposed to do with you gone? What am I supposed to write about? 

What if I forget how it feels to be loved?"