When I open the left-hand cupboard door under my mom’s TV I find a small collection of bottles of liquor: Jack Daniels, a little airplane-serving bottle of Absolut Mandarin, and twin bottles of gin, neither anywhere near close to empty. I am a fifty-year old adult now, and have no interest in sneaking sips from these bottles.
What I’m really drawn in by are behind the door on the right: little black spines all lined up. Composition books.
What’s behind the doors of my mom’s TV cabinet?
I wonder what could be in them?
I pull one out from the middle. It is blank … every single page. BLANK.
I put that one back and pull out another one. It’s blank too.
All of them are empty. Every single page blank except for the pre-printed lines.
They are all BLANK. Empty. No words. No writing. Like full bottles nobody drinks from. Or some other mystery.
Why does she have them? What are they for?
Why does my mom keep these notebooks on the bottom shelf, hidden behind this door?