Today is Good Friday. It doesn't feel much like a holiday, and I'm sitting at work. It feels strange still to work on a religious holiday, but here I am. I have no plans for Easter this year. Unlike most feast days, I've not been notified that I'm hosting some kind of dinner, which is why no one has received any invitations. I'm not really planning on driving to West Tennessee to see my mother or my mother-in-law, so I guess we'll sit at home and eat TV dinners. I might buy a small ham. I just don't know yet. Heather's just about too old for Easter baskets, and I can't even remember if I got her one last year. Another in a long line of parental shortcomings and failures. Mothers are supposed to be superhuman creatures, and I just keep falling short.
Here I stand again, speaking to an empty room. My thoughts aren't worth the cyberspace they would take up if I cared to tweet or post to Facebook, but here I stand anyway. I had no idea how long it had been since my muse had forced me to write. I used to write almost daily, poetry mostly, when I was younger and believed that someone cared what I had to say. I wanted to be e.e. cummings or T.S. Eliot or anyone who seemed to be so comfortable in his own skin to pour out his emotions onto a blank page. It took me a few years to realize that the writers who filled my pantheon of literary deities were not that comfortable after all, but wrote because not writing was more painful than the spilling of emotion. So I think I will take up my keyboard once more, wade out into the battle, and write.
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Love you Mom