Responses to prompts. Surfacing identities. Reflecting on how identity shapes my views of self. Boiled down to a rubric.
Early signs abound. Soybeans turning yellow. Maple leaves unveiling hidden cartenoids. Poplar leaves eager to be the first to touch the grass. A weekend without blades cutting the lawn. Whitetails turning gray, their presence lessening as the hunt approaches.
Pausing over divots left in the ground.
Walking the ground in search of more pauses.
A line a day. That can’t be too hard, right? Hell, there’s an entire market for things labeled “A Line a Day.” Journals, diaries, coffee mugs. I think even a drug trade may have used this as part of its marketing strategy, but I could be wrong about that.
Anyway, I’ve decided to give it a go. You know, write a line that holds in it the space of my day. The loud spaces. The silent spaces (oh, the silent spaces!). The confused and chaotic. The angry and hurt. The joyful and peaceful spaces. After awhile of writing these lines, I’ll see what story they tell. For now, though, I just need to write. Something. A line, maybe!
My brothers and I used to make light of the worry my Mom had when she knew that the three of us were traveling in the same car. Yesterday, I heard Madeline say to Karen, “I can drive Ellie to the Swing In; I need to attend, too.”
Sorry, Mom; I am so sorry. Now I know…