I think of telling you about these little writing jaunts. I promised myself that once I reached ten entries, I would mention it. Technically this is the tenth, but only the eighth if we don't count drafts. I am mentally negotiating over whether I meant published entries or not.
Either way, eventually, it is something I am compelled to do. I am afraid, believing that the moment I do, time will slip away from me and I will be idle for another decade. Ten entries will sit, gathering dust and random spam comments until one by one I revert them to draft and blanch from shame.
The things I write out loud taunt me, you know.
I don't want to make an unintentional promise. Now-- I laugh at myself. As if you are sitting on your hands, eager to read me or disappointed that I haven't made any recent contributions. I don't think that way about myself at all. If anything, I've been waiting on something worthy of sharing to strike me, to pour spontaneously from my hands. I will never think that way about myself, that I have written something worthy. And yet, it is important to me to write for you. Not about you. Not dedicated to you. Just, because there is a you. Because right now, there is still a you.
I live with this heart murmur that threatens "Tomorrow could be cloudless."
I feel this way about my dad, too. Also, everybody.
A while ago, my dad had complications- a blood clot traveling towards his heart. They did this major procedure that could kill him. We all gathered around his pre-op bed. He didn't hand us each an envelope or say profound things, despite the significant odds that these moments could be final ones. I know his message to me is to be found in that brave silence but I hate the idea of deciphering it wrong. His life is his message. It is both enough and not.
A small fire of panic spurs me onward - write that letter, say that thing, do all the things, and do them at once. I am less afraid of leaving than of being left without instructions. I am less afraid of appearing unmoored than of leaving with my life unspoken.
I mutter prayers that go "Please let them all stay."
And you. You have been a puzzle from the start. We are complicated friends but I like it that way.
I do not know your age, I do not want to, lest I try to start calculating odds. If I used to, I have made a point to forget. This clock is already ticking too loud.
I have forbidden you to die, but you are stubborn and will someday get the last laugh, I know. Unless of course, I do. I will not be invited to the funeral. I may not even know that you have gone.
We do not dwell so closely as that. We cannot.
How strange it is to cherish a gem whose facets aren't all showing, to leave the rest in stone.
To leave the rest alone.
You are the newspaper to my Silly Putty. I cannot fit the entire page, but the segments I do pick up are fascinating. You have given me songs and stories, and stretched my mind into interesting shapes.
You are tolerant of my clingy imprinting; you encourage hypothesizing.
You are original content, facts and opinions in black and white.
I am a backwards comic strip, a ball of silly, fresh hatched.
You were not the first to hear my voice, but you were the first without cause to coddle. You encouraged me to keep talking. More importantly, you taught me to listen.
Slowly, somewhat because I probably really ought to be seeing a counselor, and somewhat because I think I am suffocating, I have peeled my hand away from my covered mouth and allowed myself to breathe words again. You'll notice these entries lack pictures. This isn't a scrapbook procrastination.
Working my fingers across the keyboard like bellows, I fan that little panic flame, sending smoke rings to the sky.
I hope you can decipher them.
