Breaking the Spell

I was on a roll, tap-tap-tapping at the keyboard.  It had been a while since the words flowed freely.  I jumped when the garage door opened.  I didn’t expect him home yet.  I glanced at the clock.  It was early.  It’s a special day when he comes home early.

Hello, you made good time, I say as the door closes behind him.  I’m writing, I lamely add.  Hello, he replies.  The traffic isn’t bad this time of day.  Hey, the neighbor is outside.  What’s going on there?  There are kids buried in the snow.  Who are they?  Tell me about your doctor appointment.  What did you do there?  What did they say?  Do you feel better? 

I answered the incessant questions that say I love you, I care about you, I want to know what you’ve been doing all day, what’s going on in our home, our neighborhood, our lives.  I confess that I answered them a little harshly, a little tersely.  I loathe interruptions of any kind, and especially those loaded with questions.  This is not the most charming aspect of my personality.

I’m an ingrate when it comes to incessant love.

I want to write, I scream in my head.  All day long I’ve been running.  Groceries.  Toilet paper.  Doctor appointment.  Texting kids back and forth.  Laundry folding.  Sweeping, straightening, putting away.  I sat down only thirty minutes ago.  Thirty minutes is not nearly enough time.

But.

He is there, in our kitchen, alone.  Reading the news, checking Facebook.  Waiting for me to be done with my stuff.  My thing.  My words.

The spell is broken.  The words flowed slower, fewer now.  The inspiration was leaving; it flew to the kitchen and sat next to him, holding my spot.

I clicked save and then the red x.  Exhaled.

The words are lost for now.  I hope they’ll return.

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