About a plain jane named Joe.
She sat and wrote:"I recieved a diary today, for free. There's a woman on 10th avenue, just before you get into Forrest Hills, that sells fruit outside of her husband's store--or their store I guess. I bought a bag of apples and there was a box of books and things and it had a sign that said 'free with purchase'. So I took one, even though I didn't know it was actually a diary. Come to think of it, I've never had a diary before. I wasn't one of those little girls or teenagers that had a new love every week to write about.
I've never written anything before. I mean I've written on birthday and christmas cards and left notes for the delivery guy on my mail box. But I don't think I've actually ever sat down and composed my thoughts into this one thing. And now, thirty five years of memories come flooding to me all at once. My name is Josephine Hawthorne and I'm thirty-five. I'm not married, and I don't have any children. Well, I had a baby once, but he died because he came much too early. His father was this man that I knew for one night at a play I went to at the Rockefeller Center. I think it was The Nutcracker Prince. I had gone alone that night, hoping for something. That was two years ago though. I work at a bank as a teller. Head teller actually. I've been working there for a long time, and I've learned the in's and out's of making yourself wealthy. It's really easy and I've made quite a bit of money by investing.
Sometimes...well...that's not important. The money thing. It's just hard to believe that I did it right. I don't know what to do with it. I'm not much of a writer as you can see. My handwritting is horrible and I'm sure that I won't be able to understand it in the least when I next pick this up. Well, let's see. What else? Oh yes...I have a black cat named Jack. I found him in the garbage with these other little kittens that were already dead. I can't believe someone actually threw kitten away. But Jack was alive. He was so tiny that I thought he would die.
How can people be so mean to throw away a living thing as if their lives are worthless? I don't think that anyone's life is worthless-- not anyone's. Even if it is an animal, even if there are millions of animals, it's steal a mean thing to do. Throwing someone's life away like that...I guess that's why I decided I hated the city. I mean, when I found Jack, and I thought he was going to die, I cried for him. I thought of my little baby boy. I was going to name him Jack because it's such a good, solid name. But I think maybe God reincarnated Jack into that tiny little kitten I found just because he knew how much pain I was in about loosing my baby. What does it mean when a baby is born dead I wonder? It breaks my heart thinking about it. The doctors said it wasn't anything that I did, just that sometimes, these things happen. I keep thinking that he was born without a soul and that nearly killed me. I couldn't bring life. I brought death.
So that's been sitting with me for a while. I've been feeling so many things and I thought I would burst with them. But writing this all down makes it feel as if the steam is seeping out. I'm going to leave the city I think. It's because I hate the start of morning's in New York City. It's like...you know it's about to be day because you can hear the cars zooming past your windows and people yelling and talking and then somewhere between the yelling children from upstairs and your first cup of coffee, you remember there's the sun outside, completely ignored.
Buildings and uncaring people obscure everything that's supposed to be beautiful or something that's supposed to be admired. All I want to see in the morning is the sun. I don't want to hear the cabs, or people screaming at eachother...or smell the cars. But at the same time, that's when I know it's morning. If I moved to the country, I wonder if I'd sleep right through it because I didn't hear those things. I don't think that I would though. Sometimes I'm up before dawn and it's relatively quiet. I have to get up that early because Jack like's his food at a particular time. He's the 'man' of the house so to speak. I don't like keeping him inside, so maybe if I get a place in the country, he could go run and chase birds and mice.
I could maybe sit on my porch and write in my diary some more. There's nothing really stopping me from doing that. I'm just afraid that I won't know when it's morning. That I'll sleep the days away until I die. Maybe I'll get a rooster that crows...--Joe"