My mother always wanted to write. To tell stories. To talk about her life.
One summer, she showed me a large blank book that she had purchased. On the first page, she had written “The Vortex”.
She said that she wanted to tell the story of her life in this book.
I asked her if she could tell me about her life but she said that it wasn't something that could be easily explained and that the book was the only way she could do it.
When she died, the “The Vortex” notebook was nowhere to be found. There were no notebooks of any kind.
The story that she wanted to tell went untold.
All that remains is “The Vortex”.