it has been a year of storms, both inside and out, a flood, snow more than once, hail, loss. i have sat at this computer and began more than once to tell you about the night, to story you the storm surrounding me, to say once again listen to the train across the street and can you feel the trestle rumbling? can you feel the windows trembling? and sometimes i have told you those tales and sometimes i have not. sometimes they stay unfinished, waiting for an ending, waiting for another storm with the right words.
i tell you so much.
and yet, there are things i do not.
today's prompt from reverb10:
pick one moment during which you felt most alive this year.
describe it in vivid detail (texture, smells, voices, noises, colors).
i find that i cannot. what i would tell you has been said, what i have kept for myself is mine. i have searched the year and find nothing left. so i will leave it mostly unspoken, but this: it has been the small moments, the moments when the wind moves a certain way, the mornings i awaken to find maggie's blue flowers still blooming - now here at work, but still blooming when i walk in the door, the moments when silence at last drops onto the day, that i recall most clearly. and it has been the small moments nestled inside the big events. the weight of maggie's body when i last held her against my stomach. the world series, that last game, the swirl of red tshirts coloring the ballpark. the coolness of the blanco river, the hard rocks hurtful under my feet.
you've read it all, most of this is not new. so let me tell you this moment. it has been a warmish day, and my toes are bare as i sit in my office, and they are cold. i turn the small under-the-desk heater on, then off, and when it is on it is the only sound except for my fingers against this keyboard. my tongue is all a-tingle with granny smith apple tartness, but my belly is growling for something more. lilycat is curled atop a white blanket - until i typed those words and now she is up, green eyes the color of those apples staring at me. she can feel i am about to leave, and she is right. the emma tree is all aglow in the front room and there is a jeep with half a tank of gas waiting for me outside. diana krall will sing christmas carols to me on the way home; i will only listen to the slow ones.