As I write and chronicle my life I am forced to reach back into what memories I can grasp. Why now some may ask, what has brought on the urge to keep a diary, to write an autobiography so to speak? It has all to do with the love of my life, a man who many deemed dangerous to me. The search that had ended with me becoming a hermit, locking myself away from the world, from the ones who loved me, from the pain of heartbreak. In my self seclusion my mind would only have memories to keep me company. Many of those memories were like flashes of light in a night sky but one moment seemed to be the trigger to the flood gates opening, the impending delivery of a trunk.
That day in the desert tavern when a stranger approached, a tall red headed man who was intrigued with the color of my hair. Something familiar he said. A feeling of comfort and protectiveness like no other came over me. As you who reads this will clearly see why this is an important moment. Weeks had gone by and many conversations were had impelling him to quest for some answers on my behalf.
Not three months after that initial meeting, he had returned from his long quest bearing a sack of fruits and berries reminiscent of what was once the only home I knew. With him, and his apprentice, was also an old wooden chest which had yet to be unloaded from the ship. There have been many occasions to which he could have given the chest and it's secretive contents to me but, i suppose, in my own fear of opening deep wounds I had avoided the chest, delving into what would be found, the inevitable.
These memories are what now lead me to chronicle what I remember, for my children, so maybe one day they would understand why I had to leave them so early in their lives
