To Say Something

Our blinds perfectly frame the woman on the balcony across the street. She is wearing a D.A.R.E. to keep kids off drugs shirt, and I am taken back to middle school, in the suburbs. I wonder if she wears it, ironic or proud. I watch her methodically stir buckets of paint, for walls, or art, or furniture, I cannot tell. I am too tired to inquire more. More would mean moving my body again, for some number a mother could understand. But dear God, I love the city. Curious observers, obscure aesthetic, colliding stories. I need the city. 

I put away toys, sweep floors, and organize dishes with an urgency only desire can know. It is imperative that I sit and measure my days in rhythm and words. Each night I hover above my day, recalling every last story that begged for paper. By the time there is space, the inspiration has evaporated. I wonder how something so real could almost escape me. Time feels brave and fragile and I feel a paralyzing pressure to use it wisely. Such cognizance could maim a mother. Especially me. 

I want to write something profound, something that reads as good as it feels, but postures and colors and expressions of my day ruminate inside hidden corners of my brain. They take up space in my body, waiting for hands to humbly hold silly, sappy stories. The later is so compelling that anything but feels like failure. Experience without production, it's not easy when bones forget their stand, to feel, to support, to create. I could never choose. I'm still here, looming thoughts, eager fingers. Waiting, or rather, being.