Spring made a brief appearance in Nashville, then proceeded to try to wash us down the Cumberland before exiting somewhere mid-May and letting summer in early. We skipped June and July and proceeded straight to August - or at least the heat would lead you to believe it. Time passes in such a blur. My youngest turned twenty, my nephew turned one, and it's been a year since Momma passed away. I try not to dwell on it, honestly. But some days are harder than others. Mother's Day was hard. Her birthday was hard - even my birthday was a little tough to get through, considering that all I could seem to think about was that last year I spent my birthday in a funeral home. I think she would be laughing at me now, though, if she were here, as I try to tend to my mini-garden on the deck. Last year I got one lonely tomato from my two tomato plants; this year, I have enough green beans to almost be worth cooking up, but the tomatoes don't look promising at all. I think I'll go home and pick them, throw them in a pot of water, and add a piece of bacon for seasoning, just for her.
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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