Over three weeks ago when the house was quiet
it seemed like the earth stood still, my pens and
my keyboard were silenced by a deep conviction
to wait; so all of my writing was on hold. Worse,
my life was hold as well since she had to be away
for two of those weeks. My life seemed suspended
somewhere between horrible and terrible. I cooked
the same food but it didn’t taste as good. I went to
church to sing in the choir without her; I returned
to the same house, our house, but it didn’t feel the
same. It seemed scary instead of comfy, haunted
instead of homey. I heard sounds I never heard
before. Then the storms and wind came. And a
power outage. I prayed. I watched TV. I prayed.
I watched more TV. Movies and shows seemed
more insipid than usual. One movie was so bad
I couldn’t bring myself to watch the last ten
minutes of it. Poor script, poor acting, poor me.
Then the night came to pick you up at the airport
as did the hour for me to leave for the airport but
The flight from Phoenix left so late that it wasn’t
possible to make the connecting flight in Houston.
You had to stay the night. You said it took four
tries to find a room; it was now past midnight and
you asked for a five-thirty wake up call so you
could make the six am shuttle. And no luggage.
I left for the airport the next morning about the
same time you were due to take off from Houston.
Your flight was late. I got a cup of coffee. You
texted that you were stranded on the plane on the
runway waiting for pop-up storms to pass. Your
plane was number ten for take off.
I saw you as you walked toward me. I saw your
beautiful smile. We embraced. Kissed. The world
was right again. All was well in the universe as far
as we were concerned. It was this morning as we
sat at our kitchen counter on our bar stools that
you told me.
I was drinking my second cup of tea; you your first
cup of coffee as I get up earlier. It was then that
you mentioned about your prayer in the hotel that
night. After the Lord restored your peace, you asked
about me, “And Lord, what about my husband, what
should he do?” The Lord answered.
“He should do whatever he loves, for whatever he
wants to do, I will love.” Now we know I can continue
to write no matter what. Read or not read, book
sales or no sales, it matters not. I write because of
God’s grace and love. That is sufficient for me.
I hear the bath water draining downstairs. Her music
moves from the bathroom to the great room and
floats up to me. I have no idea what it is which is
typical for me. My music brain is stuck in the
nineteen forties and sixties. Some seventies. Whereas,
she knows every song that comes across a car radio.
I thanked her for her love and faith. Then thanked God.
She sings every song of my heart.
Poet, Writer, US Army (Retired)
I dreamed of writing when I was a youngster. The love of books and writing may have helped to dull the pain of severe sexual abuse as I was sexually abused by two men at my father’s place of work from age 8 to 12 or so. I learned about this for the first time when I was 50 years old. So, as a boy, reading was the only place I had to go to. My fantasy world was better and safer than my real world. I loved reading and writing.
Reading books and writing poetry are a joy to me still and are an important part of my life. (See my About Me page on my blog for the complete profile.)