Why I Write/June 4th, 2021
I write because I try to make sense of the world and sometimes I don’t know how.
I write because today on my river walk the air was swollen with the scent of wild roses and rebel lilac bushes blooming defiantly amongst the tangled undergrowth and I felt like I belonged and the wild understood me.
I write because today I woke up after a restless night filled with the longing to go back to those last few days with Mom, my mama, my mommy, my Daisy Dear, my mommyo, and do things better, sit with her longer, not take so many breaks, keep a closer watch on her breathing, maybe keep her alive, stop the whole thing in its tracks.
I write because I don’t have that kind of power, but I can long for it, wish it for it, make it happen in my mind.
I write because I don’t just want to go back to those last days but right to the beginning when we shared the same body.
Where we were as physically close as we were ever going to be and this time I would do things right.
I would.
I’d erase all the breaking of hearts, the disappointments, the missed connections. I’d say all the words that needed to be said and were held back, muffled and abandoned, to keep the boat from rocking more than it already had.
I’d take back all the words that should never have been said, the cruel ones, those stingers. I’d show my love more, over and over.
I write because Arrow threw up in his car seat, missing the old green towel tucked in for that purpose and landing on the nice grey corduroy cover, so I had to take it all out to be washed.
I write because it’s Friday and it’s hot and the afternoon air is dense and thick and it will never be this Friday again, and I want to know Friday to be remembered.
I write because this is life and I want to know life at this moment before it dissolves into the slipstream of time and is forgotten.
I write, because outside I can hear a robin sing, and the sound of traffic on the road outside and the hum of the air conditioner, because Arrows car bed is washed now and is drying, raising the temperature inside a little and I have a big chopped salad in the fridge for dinner and maybe, I’ll sip a glass of chilled Prosecco and eat a pear for dessert.
I write because I can.
