I’ve written those (first) two words into a poem—abandoned and reworked and abandoned and rediscovered and (you get the idea)—since I was sixteen. They have new meaning for me every time I write them.
Tonight, my newly-formed guitar string finger calluses tap-tap-tapped on the keyboard, as I began to love on my little-novel-that-could again. I wrote: Momentarily awakened in the moonless night . . .
And on cue, Shortcake woke up, calling to me from the bed. “Mommy?” I ran to her, snuggled up and kissed her cheek. “Mommy’s here,” I whispered. Sleepily, she put her arm on mine, and said, smiling, “Oh. There y’are.”
Then, Dimples woke up, febrile and coughing, with a sore ear. After ibuprofen and forehead kisses, he smiled and said, “Mom? My number one favorite thing is drawing.”
I wrote all of the above last night, and returned to Dimples’ side, eventually falling asleep with my ass on his floor and my head on his bed. And so I don’t actually know where I was going with this train of thought. Which reminds me. This weekend, traveling home from a blissful day alone on a snowy beach, I got lost in the boonies of Wisconsin. I ended up on a windy, hilly road in a thick forest, and completely lost my sense of direction. It was perfect. I was so far gone, and did not want to be found. Except that I really had to pee. Which reminds me. I’ve got to tell you about our lost-backpacking-in-a-blizzard-spring-break-trip sometime. Which reminds me. Of this, which I’ve posted before, maybe last spring:
![[img024.jpg]](http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_y6xhGdKb01A/SUgR71OMR7I/AAAAAAAAByY/whZ522OarZA/s1600/img024.jpg)
tri-x in holga, dusty neg scan, Mowgli
