01 Feb Reading Margaret’s Diary

Reading Margaret’s Diary

William recalls:

It took me a year to open her Diary. Grief has its own timing.

I needed the shock to wear off, to build my emotional armour; opening it too soon was like reopening a wound.

Of course, there is fear as well. What may be found: little secrets, personal doubts. I didn’t want to add guilt, regret or questions I could never answer.

Besides, even in marriage, diaries feel sacred. I needed time to pass so it didn’t feel like an intrusion, rather an evolution of her memory. To make her a whole person again, not just the one I lost.

It’s been a year, one full cycle without her. I’ve reached that point where I think I’ve earned the right to look. I waited because love doesn’t rush closure.

I relived much in those pages, good and bad. I noticed she wrote more as her condition deteriorated, documenting her hallucinations, even drawing pictures. It was sad, fascinating and haunting at the same time.

Margaret’s Diary:

April 14, 1879

I rose before the rooster this morning, putting a nail in the candle, an old trick my mother taught me.

It was black as pitch outside as I walked the country roads. The moon seemed larger. It was low in the sky, hovering above the horizon, taking some colour from the sun not quite risen. It looked like an enormous apple floating over our orchard.

As I got closer to town, I could see a thick blanket of fog over the river. The bridge was completely shrouded in its mist, lit only by its lamps. As I crossed over, they seemed to drift, leaving their posts, like ships going out to sea. The fog is playing with me, giving me a chill.  

The factory smelled bad today, sharp, like a metallic vinegar. Inside, the steam from the machines formed a single layer, floating around at shoulder level, making it look like everyone was treading water.
For the first part of the day, I was shaping hat blocks. Then onto the steam press for the afternoon.

At lunch, Mrs. Calder mentioned my fingers would not keep still; she said they quivered like nervous little creatures. I pressed them against the table to make them still.

The whistle blew, the day was done, and I grabbed for my bag to head home.
I need the walk today. My head felt dull, like it was stuffed with wool. I was hoping the exercise would clear it.

Halfway home, I saw a man standing on the train tracks. He was smoking a pipe and wearing a bowler. The hat was one of ours, made of premium-quality rabbit fur. The exact style I was steam pressing today.

I could hear the train coming, but the man did not. I went to call out to him, but before I could make a sound, he looked right at me and smiled, as if we shared a secret. Then he disappeared. Thinning like smoke. Gone.

As the train passed, the conductor blew his whistle, as if he had seen him too. I watched the boiler go by, billowing steam from its smokebox. For a brief moment, it looked like a huge tobacco pipe.

As I walked on, the afternoon sun was beginning to colour the countryside. That’s when I noticed something high up in the sky. Another bowler hat, big as a house, floating silently just below the clouds. A giant eye opened on its crown, startling me. I looked away quickly and back again. The hat was gone.

I quickened my pace to get home to William.

~CJ~