Found this gem of a draft as I sat down on a dismal Saturday morning to initiate my first limping step towards getting my mojo back.
Circa 2015...My the more things change, the more they stay the same.
The house is quiet. And I don't have to be.
He's not lightly sleeping in his crib, butt in air under his new fascination, the fan. He's out with Daddy. And I can blare Southern Rock so loud by greasy hair blows. My coffee cup is safe and sound on the edge of my desk. No little hands pining to feel if its hot (freshly poured) or cold (poured then abandoned). I have a glorious moment in my own home and in my own skin.
I speak too soon. The sliding door announces their arrival. And my fingers stiffen. My brain goes soft. And the idea of writing slips into a fitful dream. I have a lot to say just not a lot of time to say it. Or my priorities (a real rootin tootin tiny human) don't let me.
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