Five Year Diary

It sat at the bottom of a box,
its leopard-patterned paper cover
peeling at the edges.

"You'll have to break the lock,"
she told me over the phone days before,
"I have no idea where the key is."
The key long lost, forgotten,
like the diary
until now.

FIVE YEAR DIARY
is stamped on the front in gold
that is no longer gold,
but scratched lettering with
leopard showing through.
FIVE YEAR DIARY.
I wonder who can write about
five years in such a small book,
barely bigger than my hand.

But my hand was much smaller then.

The diary's clasp is tarnished.
The strap that secures the little book
is soft and worn.
I don't want to break the lock.
I don't want to cut the strap.
I'd rather let the words lie unseen
than violate this little girl's book.

With a thumbnail newly painted red
I gently turn the lock
hoping by chance such a simple manuever
will release the lock.

The lock was never meant
to keep anyone out,
never meant to hide secrets.
It gave so easy,
like a girl who loves to gossip.

I flipped through brittle pages.
empty
empty
empty
Poignant morsels like scattered crumbs
written in a shaky ten-year old's hand:
comment on best friends
plans for the future
a word or two about swimming
supper
bedtime

I opened the book afraid to find something,
disappointed to find nothing after all,
nothing but a little forgotten sweetness
and whimsey.