I sit in a quiet room with only the hum of his humidifier. He lays on my chest as I rock him. The curls upon his head smell of baby sweetness. The light of the moon shines through panes on window and the reflection falls on my painted toes. I sit there in silence, reflecting on a not so silent day. Days are filled with lots of noise around here. I remember an early morning as I shuffle through piles of tiny clothes, sniffing and smelling my way to see if any are clean. Only a mother would do this. I recall scrubbing floors on hands and knees after finding a trail of tiny ants making their way across a trail of sticky milk.
And somehow my mind goes back to writing. A heartbeat tied to a thought spilled forth into written word. The words written, etched and woven and spun are a beautiful, therapeutic symphony.
They are all around us these days. These writers. Pen scribblers. Symphony players. Are you one of them? If you are keep writing. Keep allowing your words to be etched onto tablets of stone. For this writing, it heals us. It heals me.
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