These mosquitoes are not really mosquitoes, and the blood that they are taking from me is not really mine. I am surrounded by glass and green things, and bright red chiggers that march forward to clean up what the mosquitoes left. The dog is asleep on the stoop. She is unaware that I am worried about firefly timetables, poverty, earthquakes, and dark, dead trees that hang over our bedroom roof. Sometimes her dreams stir her awake, and she growls and snarls at invisible predators (or prey). She doesn’t know that I miss everything, and everyone, even when they’re standing right in front of me. I’ve already imagined the day that she dies, and how tragic it will be. Knowing that I will likely outlive her makes me love her more.

I’ve let certain things get shadowy. Probably the most important things. Just a few moments ago I pulled what I thought was a weed out of a hanging basket and uprooted a walnut tree; small and new. The walnut was glossy, and the roots poured from its smooth center like veins. I tried to push it back into the planter, but then thought better of it and pushed it into a patch of earth. I ruin things sometimes by trying to fix them. There are several plants and flowers outside that bear this testament. I love on them until they break.

I’ve found it hard to sit down and write lately. I have the time but not the inclination. The weather has been so bright and mild, the trees too green, the honeysuckle and the magnolia too fragrant. I am notating the way that I feel but my fingers don’t itch as much. I am calmer. I am fluid. This act is an exhalation, and it no longer feels like childbirth but like breathing in and out. I no longer worry if my words will be published, because some of them have, and it hasn’t taken away the way that I feel when I write. This is enough for me. I no longer feel desperation, because I’m doing other things that sustain me, things that really will lead to both fulfillment and funding. One will lead to the other. The things I learn will open doors in my writing that will flow out like lava. I’ve never been patient, but am getting better at being so.

Filling my head with new things right now, instead of pouring out what’s old and covered with fuzzy mold. I have twenty-plus books to read, a thousand artifacts to catalog, German to brush up on, bike trails to ride with Xander, cities to travel to, nights to be spend with my husband. I have more than enough and I will not be so greedy as to ask for more. Image


One thought on “waxy

"... all my lovers were there with me, all my past and futures."

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