I sit down to write with my family in the same room. My view is both of them and, just beyond them, our flag whipping wildly outside as it pulls away from the pole. It’s windy today. My son repeatedly sticks a guitar pick he shouldn’t have into his mouth, shouting gibberish between licks. He yells at my husband who stops strumming and singing now and again to pull the pick out of our son’s mouth but not out of his hand. My daughter sits quietly on the floor and puts Sharpie to paper. She draws me a picture she will later say she is too embarrassed to share; she will share it anyway. My dog pretends to sleep.
Even as a write, the picture changes and everyone but my dog and I add to the volume of the room. The chimes sound outside and the wind makes wave across the lake. Laughter mingles with cries of frustration as the kids pile onto my husband. If I were writing a story about the sacredness of life, I would tell you that these sounds make up the soundtrack of my life. I would tell you that the sound is sweet even as it is loud and that I wouldn’t change it for anything.
To write such poetry, I would need a level of reflective detachment that I don’t have in the moment. The beauty mingles too deeply with the chaos and my mind, which runs without reprieve, needs quiet to quiet.
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