Sometimes I wonder why I’m so compelled to write. Why have I always been?
Yesterday my neighbor hung a plastic bag on my front door. Inside was a sweater she thought would look good on me. I didn’t notice her pass by my window to deliver it.
The sun had gone down without me noticing—my fingers furiously writing a poem no one will ever read.
Later, when I spotted the gift, I walked next door wearing the sweater, to give her a giant hug.
She asked where I was earlier. “There were no lights on,” she said.
“I was home,” I told her, “writing poetry in the dark.”
“I write poems, too,” she said, “but they all start with roses are red, violets are blue.”
I laughed. Mine aren’t at all romantic, I thought, remembering a sad one I wrote the other day about a sapling growing up all alone.
My neighbor lost her husband suddenly a couple years ago. I still remember the sound of the siren. I quickly changed the subject and asked how she was doing.
She told me she’s okay on her own because she’s begun to practice gratitude every morning—the way her mom taught her. Her mother was 102 and a half when she passed, but never complained, and remained focused on what she did have instead of what she didn’t. When her feet hurt she’d say, “Well, at least I have feet!”
As we sat and drank decaf tea together, I was reminded of how grateful I am. For you.
When I lose sight of why, you tend to find me in those moments.
You’ll ask me about my book, tell me you felt less alone after reading my blog or that you lingered over a word I chose. Because of that, I do keep going.
Thank you for reading, my silly (and oftentimes dark) musings.