I haven’t written for a while. My brain is stiff, hardened by diapers,
laundry – fear, time. My hands are
smaller than I remember on this keyboard, like they fit there once, but I
washed them too hot too many times, and now all they are good for is scraps. Opening and closing my fingers splits and
cracks the hardness, like bending branches in spring, and I need them to grow
green and alive on the inside. No more
backspaces, just motion. Fluidity. Words.
Writing used to come so naturally, like cutting open a vein
and bleeding onto paper. I used to love
what I wrote – like anyone loves a child.
Stories were my creations, each one more precious than the last, each
with their glorious individuality that I praised myself for and in which I
reveled. I read them now, and get
fidgety and nervous, like I’m taking a test in a subject I’ve never heard
of. I can’t breathe when I read it. It’s not mine – it’s not me. It’s dirty, raw, filled with some kind of
sourness I can’t explain but just feel.
It’s not my work.
I drown out the toddler next to me reciting the sounds
letters make, and try to keep my hands moving.
Cramping. They just don’t move
like they used to. A says “ah.” D says
“deh.” And I encourage him to create
sounds, pictures, words, and I can’t seem to do it myself. It’s like I’ve been holding back tears and
all I can get out is a squeak behind the lump in my throat. I choke on any kind of flow I once had. I cough and sputter and take the lid off of
another washable marker to give to my little one. My tangible creation.
Stiffness I can’t massage away, and I think heat, a shower,
and more time may help the words flow. Plus,
I’m being called by a dryer buzzer, a falling sippy cup, another reason to
stray from the keyboard. Fear. Fear of losing something that was as easy as
breathing to take care of someone who actually breathes. And worse, being content at watching the
balloon float away, until it’s a speck and I don’t even remember the color anymore.
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