the aftermath

For years she had futuristic post-apocalyptic dreams of leading a group of survivors to scavenge and scrape an existance out of the remains. It unsettled her enough that she began taking classes in her spare time. Gardening for Urban Life. Making Cheese. Darning and Hemming for Dummies. And eventually, even classes at the rifle range. She didn't know if and when it would happen, but she decided it couldn't hurt to be prepared.

toots

It was like a raucaus gaggle of Canadian geese, the cacacophony of their honking as they fly south, endless noise doppling across the evening sky... only without the crisp clear autumn air, no scent of dry leaves, wood smoke or rich earth after rainfall.

his eyes

he was present. she recognized him, he knew her, she could tell. she spoke and he blinked. once yes. she touched his hand gently. kissed his cheek. murmered a few cheerful things, her smile painted on. her eyes telling only the truth. then a misunderstanding and his eyes bulged in alarm. She tensed. she knew this was goodbye. She wasn't going to come again. It wasn't a positive experience for either of them. She took a deep breath and walked away. She didn't look back.

the perfect poem

sometimes, just before falling asleep, the perfect poem would float gently into the edges of her near dream consciousness. she could trace the edges and taste it on her tongue, but she could not exactly grasp it. she could not convince her wakeful self to open eyes, open light, grope for pen and write. and so she never did write that. she never did.

the truth about her

she often cheated. she often lied. she didn't feel guilty. she did it without thinking. she did it seamlessly and without a second glance. she almost never thought about it. she almost never cared.

her left hand

for one entire day she used only her left hand. she consciously had to disable her right hand, frequently reaching absentmindedly for something then tucking it behind herself and restarting the motion with her left. it really took a lot of effort. by mid-day she hoped she'd be more used to it, but the right-hand-dominance seemed inexerable. by evening she was frustrated. unbuttoning her blouse before bed was like torture. reaching for her bedside light awkward. a single tear slipped silently down her cheek. and she brushed it away, without thinking, using the back side of her left hand. oh sweet success.

shhhh

She wasn't sure exactly when she started whispering but now she wasn't sure if she could stop. She really was fascinated by how intently people began to listen when she lowered her voice to near hush. When she asked softly for her grande mocha latte, the barrista would lean part way across the counter and focus carefully on her lips singling her alone out from the hustle and bustle of the morning crowd lined up behind her. She loved the attention. When she arrived at work and told Samuel, the security guard a breathy "Good Morning," he would take a step closer, look her directly in the eyes and smile back a cheery greeting.
Even on the telephone, she spoke clearly, carefully but quietly. She had the idea that her clients might be pushing buttons on their own phones trying to hear better. She felt powerful and in control.

She remembered her mother often saying "Less is more," and it seemed she had discovered that as far as volume was concerned, her mother was absolutely correct.

she wrote something every day... just to see what happened

Since she was a little girl she had been in the habit of starting journals and diaries. There was something so compelling about that first blank page of a brand new book. So many possibilities. She had sometimes written about her day to day life. Simple stories as a child, rantings and ravings against the unfair world as a teenager, witty anecdotes as she got older and discovered her voice. She had sometimes written prose, sometimes poetry, sometimes bullet lists of to-dos and goals and dreams. She had sometimes imagined she could write something worth publishing.

But she never stuck with it. She had no full books to her name. Most things she hadn't even kept.

She had more snips and clips saved on-line now. Things she had cut and pasted for the past few years into her e-mail or her livejournal. Nothing that anyone would call a body of work, but more than she expected when she recently sat down to skim through it all.

I do love to write, she said to herself. It is something I enjoy.

I should do it every day.

For awhile at least.

Just to see what happens.