Grief takes your words.
At least it took mine.
As much as I desire to focus, to write, to engage with words in this space, it is difficult.
So much is complex, like looking up at the corkboard pieces above my desk and seeing the eyes of my siblings, small and silly except for the tall one (me), banded together in that first day of school (and daycare) photo back in 1981like little troopers, not knowing what life would bring.
Not knowing all of the heartache to come, and that we would officially be motherless in 2021. That the forty-year wilderness wander wouldn’t end well.
I stand and try to stay present, because that is where the writing is. In the now.
It’s not in the journals I dig up to try to find words to share or in the future I try to predict but in the now.
So what is now?
Now is a dishwasher emptied and a load of laundry cycled through again, because I let wet clothes sit in it too long. It is an empty sock drawer, because the new laundry system has glitches still being smoothed, and I am the one to blame. There is no one to blame. Blame seeks me out and tries to stick.
I am done taking the blame for all of the things.
It’s phone calls and coffee check-ins and a day reserved for me, mostly.
It’s a bird out of his cage flying around, daring me to leave the door to my office open just a second too long. He hides behind items on the top of the bookshelf, his cage freshly cleaned waiting for his return.
It’s a timer set to just write and publish and not analyze or reflect, because what is in my head is just write.
Have you written anything? two friends ask me separately today.
I have written a lot in my journal, just not for public consumption. And I don’t even know what to say. I answer honestly and make a mental note to self just write.
There are lots of words out there. Lots of people saying all of the things. Today I just write about where I am, and it is here.