House sounds are so much more pronounced when you’re in the bathtub.
Sorry for the mental image, but it’s true. A certain degree of nakedness makes every little sound seem so close, so real, so ominous.
Yes, you guessed it. It’s Mom’s Spring Break Part II. I’m alone with only my thoughts, a warm bath and Dove ice cream bars.
Oh, and a very sparse fridge:
At least you see firsthand the way to my heart is through Coke, bacon and chocolate chip cookies.
As if you didn’t already know.
The fridge is bare. The house is quiet (other than those creaks and bangs I alluded to earlier).
I’m writing stories in my head again. I need to sit down and type. I need to take the time.
Right now Anthony Bourdain is calling my name on my DVR. His stories come first. Maybe he’ll push me to write more. Tell the stories swirling in my head.
The Crane Wife is blaring from the iMac. I’m dancing and singing. REALLY loudly. The neighbors must be frightened. There’s no doubt someone can hear me. I’ve lost it for sure.
“She stood to fly away …”
That’s how I feel right now. I feel as if I could stand up and fly away. The sky’s the limit. I have it in me. I have it. It’s there. The ocean is crashing and the sky is weeping and I hear the rain on my window. Somewhere, someone’s sitting in the surf. Writing their name in the sand with their toe. Or is it me? Is that me on the beach? The fog is so dense. The air is so wet. I just can’t tell.
Last year during Mom’s Spring Break, I got so very little accomplished. I talked to ghosts and ate spinach wraps. Watched a lot of bad TV. This year will be different. The rain holds me hostage today, and of course there’s work tomorrow, but I have a plan. I will get out in the sunshine. I will walk. I will take photos again. I will write. I will make it a priority to sit down at my computer and write. Even if nobody ever reads a word of what I write, the stories are there. They need to come out. Even if only for me.
3:35 p.m. I finally got dressed.
I’m sitting here.
The story is unfolding. It’s right there at my fingertips.
Anthony is on hold.
Now, I write.