Finding embers

There was a time after my son died, almost two years, that I didn’t write.  My ubiquitous blogs, the puking out of the shit that clogged my brain, ceased.  The stories stopped.  The manuscript of a novel stopped and was deleted.  I capped the release valve of my soul.

It wasn’t that he was overly connected to my writing.  I would send it to him.  He would give me smart ass comments and correct any factual errors I had made about greek mythological heroes or quantum physics.  Eventually he might mention something was okay.  I once wrote a character who’s wife died, and he decided to remain awake because every time he fell asleep it would be one more day he was removed from her.  Maybe that’s what I did.  Everything I write, that he does not weigh in on, is one more step away from my son.

Lately the words have been coming in avalanches; too much to hold back.  Maybe it’s the grad program I’m in and the requirement to generate words.  Maybe it is just some distance from that road.  Maybe it is a boy, an adolescent, a teenager, a young man, a ghost telling me it’s okay to write again.  I’m too pragmatic for the latter explanation, and he would mock the shit out of me if I were to claim it.

Maybe it’s just time to write.

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3 Responses to Finding embers

  1. Kim Catron says:

    Powerful reflections.

  2. Tom Scoville says:

    When the moon has gone, carry on by starlight.

  3. Gabrielle says:

    It has to come out sometime. Your head would explode if you kept it in.

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