Untitled, Ashley Alongi

It would happen every Sunday. Or was it on Saturdays? Well, it was on the weekend. We would sit on my grandmothers couch, blue with daisies. Or was it green with roses? Anyway, on some kind of couch we would sit. I would be in the middle clutching my scarecrow doll, Elmo would be to my right, with my grandmother and Zoe (another seasme street monster) to my left. I would be babbling about some sort of adventure the three would be having and grandma would be copying it all down. After an always delicious lunch of elbow macaroni with lots of cheese, I would take the journal from my grandmother and start drawing pictures. She would have to remind me what each page said, seeing as I how I couldn't read or write yet. I treasured those days and I think she did too, waiting to see whatever weird story I could come up with next. Eventually the visits stopped and so did the writing. And then she moved to Florida. But before she left she gave me the journal. The book I had marveled over so much when I was little was now falling apart, its pages loose from its binding and the gold design flaking off the leather cover. But yet I still loved it. She told me to keep using it, maybe actually write the words in myself this time. I never did though. It still sits on my bookshelf, untouched so that the memories of The Adventures of Elmo, Zoe and Scarecrow girl can stay they way they always were. Perfect.