Dear Blank Page,
You made me shudder. I stare at you and I see your beauty and I know I’m going to mess it up with my chicken scratch handwriting.
You made me shudder. You are only worthy of the best; I must find the innermost workings of myself to spill onto you. I must be truthful and exquisite.
You make me shudder. Everything I didn’t know I needed to say comes pouring out in inky delusions. Before I even know what’s happening you’re full to the top, and bottom.
You make me shudder.
Do you remember that old blue house in Ocean City, with the decaying bay windows?
Do you recall the aging cream kitchen fridge stocked with beer and rum?
The decrepit bathroom that no one used because it was also the laundry room, and the white ancient washer with the backwards cold and hot water knobs? Is your memory still filled with all the times I shrunk my clothes because I forgot cold was hot and hot was cold?
What about the way we reorganized my bedroom, so that the king sized bed was up against the closet, when Luke left? It was then that it became ours.
And the living room with the old tenants’ art all over the walls. The shards of glass lining the stairway that we used to cut ourselves on. I love lamp scrawled above the doorway to the kitchen.
I’ve been a little lost lately. I’ve been running and spinning and parachuting into nothingness to save others. I’ve been destroying myself.
There’s a couch in the bed of my truck. It sits there, covered by a flimsy tarp, waiting for the day it can go to its new home. Waiting for me to interrupt my life to take it to its new home, just as I interrupted my life to take it from its old one.
It’s weeks before Christmas and somehow my son has managed to get a new toy every day of December. It’s only weeks before Christmas and my Jack has asked me what I want once. He hasn’t gone shopping at all.