The Maid's Diary

by Loreth Anne White

Huge dripping conifers tower around us, and fog sifts like specters between the ancient trunks.

People write like this in journals?? I would hate to have anyone read how I used to write in my journals hahaha

Sometimes life direction is not a choice. It’s imposed on us. Against our will.

Sometimes, years later, while going about your ordinary business, thinking you’re okay and that you’ve left it all behind, a random scent, a snatch of music, a certain color, will slash a broken shard of memory through your brain.