Café Writing January (Fresh!): Seven Things

Give me seven things that inhabit or occupy your writing space. Interpret “writing space” any way you please. You’re not required to explain the items in your list, but it’s more fun for readers if you do.

Note: I’m interpreting “writing space” as I please…

1.       Freestyle

Right stroke, left stroke, right stroke, *breathe*.
– stroke,  — stroke,  — stroke, *breathe*.
str–k,  str–k,   str–k,  *breathe*.
—,     —,      —,      **.
**    **     **    **.

My mind empties once the rhythm sets. 30 minutes. No baby, no crying, no chores, no distraction. My body floats on the water. My arms propel it forward. I think. And then I write. And then I rewrite. And then I breathe again. And again. And again.

2.       My 16-month-old
3.       Lined paper
4.       A ballpoint pen

When my son laughs and looks to me, I smile at him, too. And when he turns back to his cars, I uncover my notepad. Arrows try to direct the chaos, seeking order in the midst of my crossed-out cursive. What am I trying to say? I click my pen and watch him play.

5.       A binkie
6.       My laptop

My son attempts escape from my arms: he knows naptime. And in his crib, he stands, crying and reaching for me, a traitor who removes him from his toys every afternoon. Then I hand him a binkie: his body slumps down into a position of sleep and he rubs his closing eyes. Now he’s silent. I slip out of his room and hurry to my laptop, ready to disorganize the chaos in my mind.

7.       My husband

I hear the cab driving away before I hear him. Then I hear the front door. I close my laptop and greet my husband, the inspiration for what life and love can be.

True response to 3WW: Change, Dizzy, Key

We’d been awake since 4 repacking the bags and fitting them in the trunk. It was 9 a.m., and my friend had just arrived to drive us to the airport. My growing headache at the thought of the next 24 hours of travel was already starting to make me dizzy and the baby was calling for attention, but he was buckled in the car seat and we were almost ready to go.

I was impressed. We were physically ready but the flight was not going to leave for four hours yet. With one hour to drive to the airport, we were doing well. This was a change: a year earlier, pre-baby, we’d be rushing out the door at the last possible minute, arriving at the airport just barely in time to get through security.

“Okay,” I said to my husband. “Are we ready?”

He pushed the inside door lock and let the door swing shut.

“Yeah, just about.”

“Did you turn off the kitchen light?”

“I think I forgot,” he turned to re-enter the house. The door was locked. “Oops.”

He went to the trunk and started rummaging around, moving the carefully arranged duffle bags.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said a moment later, “as long as the house is locked, we’re okay. We can leave the light on. Let’s just get to the airport now.”

He kept searching in the trunk.

“I could come and turn it off for you later, if you want,” my friend offered.

“No, it’s not that,” he said, standing up again with a sheepish grin. “It’s my carry-on bag. It’s in the house with the key.”

I shift my son from my left hip to my right, and he whines and squirms for escape. The diaper bag over my shoulder slips to my elbow and I stop to reposition it.

My husband stops beside me, reaching for the bag, his wheeled bag toppling.

“You got it?”

I nod but hand him the diaper bag, again repositioning the eight-month-old rock squirming in my arms.

My son smiles and reaches for his daddy, but I pull him close to me. We walk. Up the escalator and we’ll be there, here, done, finished, back again, finally returned.