I have a journal. It's a lovely red book my friend Mary gave me after my daughter died. It had remained empty and beautifully intact until I tried writing in it a few years later. As I sat in bed wearing my daughter's favorite pajamas, I took the book from the headboard shelf and filled half of the first page. Then I ripped it out, threw it away and put the book back on the shelf. Years later, here I am again. Mary, this is My Red Book.