Dear Journal,

I've been thinking about things in the past that have seemed odd.

When I was eight, I passed my mom's room and saw her combing her hair with a fork.

A fork.

Then, when I was ten, I found a drawer of forks in my parents' room. There were twelve of them, in a neat row. They looked like they were lovingly placed.

The ones on the far left were simple looking forks: Iron, steel, aluminum, brass, bronze, and copper. The farther right they got, the more impressive and elaborate they were. There was one made of silver, one of gold. There was delicate porcelain fork, and one made entirely of glass. A diamond crystal fork positively gleamed next to the one made of jade. They were all gorgeous and I was about to lift the one made of jade when my mom caught me.

I didn't get in trouble. She just sat me down and told me that every year for their anniversary Dad got her one. When I asked her why, she just smiled and told me it was to entice her away from of the one she used.

I was always confused about that. It's just another thing that never made sense.

She asked me not to ever touch them, but that I was free to look anytime.

When I was leaving the room, I remember her picking up a fork that had been lying on the dresser. I hadn't even noticed it because it was old looking, almost rusty and it was missing a prong.

She combed her hair with it.

1. Something happened when Mom was sixteen.

2. Mom collects forks.

Sincerely, Melody