I remember the day when he gave me an empty notebook and told me to fill it up, like I would want to fill up my life. I remember that it was raining too hard that day, or that night. I remember that I had woken up hours before dawn because there was a thunderstorm. I remember watching the sky fascinatedly through the glass window, because the thunderbolts disappeared before my eyes could catch them. I remember the sky was purple, but I don’t remember when I had walked in the other room to discover that blank notebook near the window sill, and I hadn’t remembered to shut the window.
I remember reminding myself that I was a seven-year old and my memory was not yet fully developed.
I remember that the blank pages had become wet and wavy, as if the rain was trying to prove that it could create waves too, like the ocean. I remember not liking the ocean because it always very moody, sometimes calm and sometimes playful.
I remember allowing the book to dry, because mom said that time heals everything, even the ocean’s outbursts. I remember that when it did dry, the pages had become resilient, because I had spilled some drops of ink and the paper had soaked it up, and not turned wavy. I remember recording in tiny handwriting the birthdates of my relatives, my classmates, my friends, and leaving blank spaces next to the names I did not know. I remember deciding that I would tell no one, but I do not remember where I kept it.
I remember reminding myself to remember where I had hidden it. I remember reminding myself that no one knew about it.