The Journal, The Belt, The Friend
Late at night, I pulled into the gravel drive of my 1930s cottage and descended the concrete steps to my basement bedroom. My fingers fumbled with the keys as I entered my home. My teen kids were at their dad’s for the weekend. I had just returned from a speaking event in Salt Lake City, an hour’s drive north. After a long workday and the event, I was exhausted. My basement room had been converted into an apartment in the 1970s. Mustard yellow Formica countertops and avocado green appliances greeted me as I locked the door and flipped on the light switch. I had turned the kitchen into my art studio, the laundry room just beyond, connected to upstairs. Too tired to find pajamas, I tossed my clothes onto the carpet, hit the light-switch, and climbed into bed. Clicking on my bedside lamp, I reached beneath my mattress for my journal, the perfect hiding spot—accessible but out of sight from my teens. My hand met empty space. Confused, I reached further, sweeping my hand up and down. No jou...
