It occurred to me while I was in the shower.
ten thousand tears
invisible walls cry out
desperate to be heard
a crimson tee shirt hangs over the side of the tub, and through glass illusion
i hear the song.
My baby is almost 15.
When my baby is exactly 15, we'll be 5,000 miles apart.
And while I've been assured and re-assured that he's just fine about the distance, I feel every mile between me and him.
In the shower that night I started writing for him, ache and beauty to make up for my absence, a blog post to celebrate his life and my affections, a mental composition that would make grown men weep and slay the heart of women, even those steely and fortressed and usually invincible from verbal machination.
(Never do I write more brilliantly than in the shower, except maybe during those sleepless nights when tossing and turning spins genius and imagination.
Until I towel dry or wake up the next day.)
And then I thought of The Hunger Games.
The way Tributes are tarted up and trotted out and consumed by insatiable monster, and how we in America celebrate and emulate celebrity. I wondered just how many degrees separate us from Panem?
And then I thought about blogging.
Bloggers are word exhibitionists, aren't we? We tell our stories and the people in our lives are pieces in our game, and isn't it lovely to write beautiful tribute posts that tell the world wide web how great and wonderful the people in our lives are?
Except this time I couldn't do it. I can't do it.
After a very long time (it seems) of writing online, something's shifting inside me. And I'll be honest, I'm not quite sure what to do with it or what it means. Maybe it doesn't mean anything; it definitely doesn't mean everything. But I'm sure in this case it means something–
Sometimes it's best to whisper sweet somethings into my lovies' ears, only their ears.
My baby will be 15 soon and there are some things I need to tell him.