The problem with writing is that I never know where to start or stop. I think I have a concept or something that I can talk about, but it doesn’t stop there–it ties to something here or something there, and if I don’t explain what happened before, I can’t explain what happened after; and maybe, that’s why Kirsten H. could write an essay in three pages and I couldn’t.
So, I was taking the basset for a walk this evening and I thought, boy, I could call my Aunt Shirley. Now, take note of this–I can’t tell you the last time I picked up the phone and called anybody. I haven’t really talked to anyone since my mother died. And even when my mother was alive, it was hard. I didn’t have much to say. What do you say to your parents when times are hard and your nerves are on fire, you have no money, and life sucks? At some point, I just stopped talking. Even now, I don’t have much to say. I watch. I watch. And I watch some more.
But the morning started out well. The basset was stalking bunnies from inside.
And I had a lot to do. A lot. More than I planned. So much more than I planned. I had work for home and work for money and work for cleaning and I only had four hours, because today was a Sunday, and on Sundays, my dad comes over to watch NASCAR races that start at 1 PM. So there is this unspoken list of things I have to do. I had to wash clothes to hang them on the line. And I had to come up with dinner. And lunch. And I had to vacuum. I made 20 hamburger patties and froze them all. And before I knew it, my hours were gone. And nobody would want to talk to me because I had so much more I had to do. But I couldn’t do it because my dad was over and we had to watch NASCAR.
My car died this past Friday. My son’s truck died a couple of times in the past month. Thank God I have a friend who is a mechanic, because I know I’d be REALLY hurting more than I already am. But I owe my mechanic a million thanks and first children because he does really take care of me. Anyway, my car is in the shop. I have no car. I have no money to pay for my car. My husband spent this weekend working a second job and I needed to spend this weekend working on a second job, but there just wasn’t time between laundry, and cooking, and sheets, and… and…I just pray my car will be fixed.
And I so want to write. I want to put words to this chaos and hell, but sometimes it feels I just go back to my old ways of rambling, and rambling more. Maybe I’m just whining. And maybe I’m whining too much.
The bright spot of the day was when my son called to tell me that his baseball team won two more games (he pitched one) as boys on the bus screamed in the background, “Hi Mama Hicks” or farted or cursed or created whatever chaos it was. I couldn’t hear him. But I was so happy to have him on the end of the line.
So, after dinner tonight, I took my dad home because he kindly loaned me his car until mine was fixed. There was a rainbow out and we drove right to the end of it, but I’ll be damned if there was gold. I came home and took the puppy for a walk, and thought of calling my aunt. But I won’t, because I can’t. I need to be able to think about what I’d say. And now I sit here an type, hoping to find my voice again. Hoping to find meaning. Some of you may not know what I’m saying, because I think the only language I know is black. I have a friend who speaks the same language, I think, but I have yet to establish that fact. But for now, all you need to know is that it is black.
There were daffodils in bloom across the street tonight. The puppy walked spiritedly. The light was pale, the air was warm.
I thought about calling my aunt tonight and talking. Maybe tomorrow I will.