Fridays (Friday Number Eight, October 6th, page 1 of 6)

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Mornings are my favorite time of day, early morning before the world awakes. I can sit and watch the glow of a new day creep up above the horizon on the harbor, painting the sea in shades of red. When I was growing up, the morning was my time, when my parents were still asleep and the house belonged to me alone. It is Saturday morning, after Friday night number eight. As I sip my coffee, wrapped snugly in flannel against the chill, I am forced to conclude I've made a disaster of our last evening. For once lately, Amy and I are in full accord on that point.

My mind is still at sea over the happenings so before I explain myself, I'll do justice to this journal and devote a few lines to the other matters that occurred during the seven days just past, though they are without any startling revelations.

School continues with its small successes and travails. Don't think because my classroom happenings are not documented in this journal they are without interest. I have purposely omitted the doings of my school chums. To do them justice would require an increase of these pages ten-fold! Besides, I've attempted to restrict this journal to more personal matters. After all, I reluctantly promised Father Hammond to pour out my soul in this book, in hopes of attaining a purging of the inner grief he feels I continue to shelter. Give me a gold star for trying.

My home hours are much the same as past weeks; busy and as a result no chance for a recent ocean-side walk. There has been one small change in my Hawthorn Street household. We have an addition, at least for the time being.

My coterie of confidants is rapidly expanding. First there was Amy, and then this journal. With the recently discovered letters came Sarah whose thoughts I share via her writings; though decidedly ours is a one sided relationship. Now a new friend has joined our select group.

A black cat who previously received his sustenance from the recently deceased Mr. Shulman, has taken to grace my doorstep every day this week. Although I tried to ignore him, his pathetic look finally succeeded in shaming me. I donated a small bowl of milk to his wellbeing yesterday morning, before I left for school. I feel he interpreted my offering an invitation to a long term commitment. Since then he has become an immovable fixture on my stair. Alas, today I allowed him entrance into my sanctuary.

All my confidants have names but I was in a quandary what to title this new guest. While I refer to "it" in the masculine, I truly don't have a clue nor an interest in investigating the he or she of the animal. Therefore, a sexless moniker would have to be chosen. Amy and I decided on "Black Cat."

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