The rays hit the surface of the water, sparkling and glistening, blinding me with the light. The sky was a mixture of dusty purple and powdery pink. I shoved my shades down over my eyes, casting my sight away from the beautiful scene and down to the open book in front of me. It was no ordinary book. Quite the opposite, in fact. The book was a diary, a diary belonging to my grandmother. I’d picked one of the newer-looking diaries to read first with the intent of finding out if Nana had written anything about my father’s death. The diary deceived me. It wasn’t new. The leather cover was clean and well cared for, but the diary itself was over fifty years old. I started to place it aside to grab another but found myself hesitant to release it from my firm grip. My thumbs skimmed through the pages and I was transported, no longer sitting on my deck. The diary took me back to a different time, a different era. Everything surrounding me faded away, even the sweltering heat and humidity that lingered in the air, curling the tendrils of hair that had fallen loose from my bun.
