Oh the swirl of disconnected ideas… stories that return again and again, nudging at me to write them.
Standing in my grandmother’s kitchen, my small hands covered in powdery white flour, pressing the biscuit cutter into the soft dough. My grandmother’s sleeves rolled up neatly, the smell of Dove soap and the morning’s coffee. A feeling of pure contentment. The way she would dip a spoon in the jar of dark, thick molasses and hand it to me. Rich and slightly bitter, I sought and savored all its sweetness.
How you know it’s something that wants to be written: the catch in your throat as you type, the thump-thump as your chest tightens, the single fat tear on your cheek. Or in the car at night on the way to pick up diapers and nail polish (that red wine shade you love), the rush of the song you need to sing. The urge to keep driving until the landscape splits wide and the sky opens up.
The autumn chill, the red-orange maple, brilliant, and the few leaves that float, suspended in the crisp air, a moment almost long enough to hold, like cupping water, before they fall and skitter across the street. My 20-year-old self rises like a ghost, urgent youth. My first apartment. A fresh school year starting.
How writing stops rumination, halts the unsolvable cyclical thoughts: if you are mid-story your brain works out sentences, tunnels through the question toward the answers to fresh questions. How best to ask? How best to answer?
(Post 272 of 365)