This morning I awoke to thunder outside my window. The dripping of rain. A constant non-stormy drip. A gray day. Today is the day I find a way to let you in, find my words. At least a few of them. A handful of rainy words to drip through my fingers onto the keys.
I’m here. And yet, in so many ways, not.
Somebody else’s story is playing out in my life. A big story. To which I’m just a bit player. An important one, a supporting role. And, yet, it is not my story to tell.
As I’ve said before when I can’t speak about the important things I find myself unable to talk about the frivolous. It’s not that I don’t try. I come to my comfortable spot. And I stare at a blank screen. I type out words. Words that show up jumbled, out of order, misspelled. That make no sense. The screen is itself a reflective one. One that only shows the confusion of my inner thoughts. I look through pictures for inspiration to tell a different story, I know all the other stories of my life are still playing out around me and I think I could just shine the light on them, deflect light onto another show. And I realize my photos no longer inspire me. I’ve forgotten how to use my camera, that is when I remember where it is. I have so little for you. I have nothing to give. I don’t think what there is of me, you’d want much of. And so, until the curtain falls or at least until I can successfully shift the focus from this one all-important stage I’ll just be quiet. Quietly here. Trying to find my camera. And my words.
Drip, drip. The rain falls and my three year old awakes. He wanders into the kitchen while I’m brewing a cup of comfort.
“Mama, the sun’s not there today.”
Nope, buddy. It’s not today.
“But, Mama, it’ll come back another day.”
