Tonight I did my words. They were nothing. I poked the internet, did the dishes, emptied the trash. The kids and I have been in the house for days, bound by sickness and rain. It’s still November. I write.
But when the words were done, I opened the neglected side door, now a ruin of cobwebs and dust–like we don’t even live here, like the words have finally had their way–and I noticed how cold it’s become, how late in the season, and how quiet.
The moon was just behind the old maple tree, a three-quarter moon, showing off.
There were clouds encircling it, blue, green, even pink. They didn’t move. They were absolutely frozen as if I were looking down into a deep December pond. I felt like the frog princess looking into the spring, looking for lost treasure.
I stood in the driveway with the moon deciding which of us was up and which was down. I thought of ice skating and how hard it is to do on a frozen stream with all its bumps and pot holes. It’s so late, even now. I heard chimes outside the neighbor’s door; could smell the onset of winter.
I know the story now, the memoir I’m writing. It’s the story I don’t want to write, like it’s been said and written so many times by so many, many people. It’s all about an insecure little girl from a great, big family and how she grows up all on her own. She’ll misunderstand a lot of things. She’ll suck her finger. She’ll be weird. But she’ll come out fine in the end.
Finer than frog’s hair.