It can be hard work waiting on the words to come.
Sometimes they come in the middle of the night and the morning is jump started. Some stories can't wait to be told. Occasionally its a line from a song (always playing in the background of my life), a phrase from a book I'm reading or a Michael Ruffin prayer that bring them to me.
On rare occasions I close my eyes and place my fingers on the keyboard and see what happens.
Then there are days like today. I sit and wait. I've learned to not rush it.Watching the sun rise I'm surrounded by "the holy host of others" ... Fran and her thousand shades of green ... the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt ... a "Clothing Optional" sign that Conner gave me ... Winston, the little gay dog and Goddess of course.
Sarah sleeps and I'm dutiful about checking to make sure she's not interrupted. Her three little girls can wear your ass out.
Staring out the sliding glass doors, these things go in and out of focus. My mind races with images. Brynn Grant and I saw each other yesterday and she sprinkles delight even while pumping gas.
My mentor Ben Barnes, white napkin stuffed under his chin and pants pulled high around his waste, talking to me at lunch about how the older you get the more people forget about you.
Suzanne Mendonsa speaking to Ben and then warmly recognizing me, "Oh Micheal, it's been so long. How are you?" and the way she said it warmed my heart while unleashing many memories of her and her late husband Don.
Watching Sarah's parents meet my son Jeremy for the first time as they crawled out of bed and he and I stood in this kitchen looking like Hippies making each other laugh. Sarah's youngest Cassidy hauls herself out bed, blond hair askew from the pillow, ignores her Mom and grandparents to walk straight to Jeremy and lay her head against his stomach.
Getting a phone call from one of my illegitimate kids, Mary Catherine Berry, yesterday as to tell me that Bill's father had died. My heart broke for Bill, Micah, Kathy and Amber and I drove the car, sailing across the marsh in bright sunshine. I can still hear Mr. Berry on the phone when he discovered it was me, "Mike Yes! You need to talk to Bill. Bill needs to talk to you," and the rustling and excitement until Bill was on the phone.
The glaze washes away from my eyes. They are now moist as I wipe them.
There are no stories today.
No great inspiration.
There are these prayers just between God and me.
