Open a document.
Watch the cursor blink. (What if there is someone on other end sending Morse code in those blinks? Does she need help? What can I do?) I can write. I will help by writing: gather some words. Sentences can help, but any words will do. Let her know she's not alone. But first. Open a new tab. Time to check the news. When this all first started, every day felt like a new century with enough news to fill a World War. Now, the stories bleed together, trickles of facts, stats, mask patterns -- creating pools of doctors' warnings, desperate parents, death counts. Too much. Return to the blank document. Find solace in the emptiness. But that blinking cursor still calls for help. The white space stares. A gaping mouth. A never-ending cave. The bottom of the ocean. An overflowing morgue. Maybe that girl behind the Morse-code cursor needs advice: Where should I order takeout from? Will the store have flour this afternoon? When will life return to "normal"? Will my parents stay healthy? Will my kids be okay? But you don't have those answers. Take a deep breath. She's still there, blinking, waiting for your words. They matter. So does she. Bring her to life. Begin to write.
2 Comments
Missy
4/14/2020 06:15:33 pm
I absolutely love the "what if" of Morse code blinks. This will be my new motivation when facing the blank page. Always a joy to read your writing, Kim!
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4/14/2020 10:56:31 pm
Kim, thank you for this wonderful poem. PLEASE come to the page every day. I have discovered this month that the imposed immobilization actually frees me to write about minutia! Stasis unleashes the muse!
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September 2020
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