Bumble Bee

I wake early, the day so long when it begins in the quiet moments before anyone else rises. I meditate, shower, think of the rain outside the window. I write, I write, I write. By early afternoon I wonder that it is not dinnertime, amazed that there are more hours in which to live and create. The rain continues. I do not run. My to do list is a long jumble of checkmarks, but the gray clouds knock the air right out of me, how strange this life. Across the time zones, she says, I feel guilty bringing him into this life, when we are not strong enough to hold him together. Everybody's battles continue, even as everything else ostensibly is put on hold. I move to the next step on the to do list.The rain ends, against forecast.

You do not owe anyone your story, but yourself. You have been walking around this tome so long, too afraid to lift the cover, but close. It's all there, and you know it.

You know once you read it, you'll never be able to go back.

You've yet to know that's a gift, not a curse.