I sit on the couch, poised over the laptop, hoping something resembling words will come, but they lurk elsewhere today; outside, across the street, through the woods, too far away to grab. Other writing work I should be doing niggles at me, but I wait instead, knowing that in an hour there’s an appointment and then it’s off to the food shop for the day. Not enough time to get entrenched, right? I pick up The Faith of a Writer, by Joyce Carol Oats from the table in front of me, unbend the page where I left off, thinking perhaps inspiration is to be found in the next paragraphs. Inspiration? Maybe. A blog post topic, not.
So, I click over to FaceBook, comment, and head to Blogger dashboard where I read a few blogs. Comment. Toy with including a picture on today’s post at the direction of a photo blog I just found. It said to publish the (unedited) fifth picture in the first folder of photos I ever saved. Pause. I only started saving pictures to the laptop within the last year. Fifth picture? Fat kitty, making herself comfortable on the bed. Now the desktop, that’s another story. Move to the desk, fire up the antique computer sitting there and the fifth photo in the first folder there contains a photo of my then 11-year-old burying herself in the drifts left by the blower during a storm that still pelted full force.
I remember that day. Snow slanted sideways and stuck to the windows. My husband muscled waist-high drifts with the blower, our daughter and her cousin built a fort at the corner of the driveway where the piles were deepest. Although I can’t remember this for sure, afterward I’ll bet you there was hot cocoa, a fire in the fireplace, and puddles on the floor, where for the millionth time, we learned the lesson we seem forget from year to year about what a bad idea it is to walk around on stormy days in socks.