She
allowed the tears to begin rolling down her cheeks as soon as she saw
him getting out of his car, but the sobbing didn’t begin until she had
buried her face in his chest, could feel the solid weight of his arms
around her. She was oblivious to the other restaurant patrons getting
out of their cars and walking through the parking lot, only pausing
briefly to wonder about the couple standing in the drizzling rain; a
little girl held her mother’s hand and starred, a solemn look on her
shamelessly inquisitive eyes.
She
was only aware of the comfort she felt in his embrace, as if her feet
were on solid ground for the first time that day. Her shoulders shook
with spasms caused by her inability to catch her breath and she could
feel her tears become cold as they touched the shoulder of his polyester
coat. The waterproofing made them roll off, but not before they had hit
her cheek again and mingled with the fresh, hot tears that were
continuing to fall.
She
knew he was concerned, knew he was choking back tears of his own,
caused by her misery. He would do anything to make it better. He would
give up his dreams if it would only make her happy. But she didn’t need
that; she only needed to fall against him and to have him hold her up.
She needed a few moments to let go of the facade, to stop being perfect
and having it all together. Just a minute to stop striving. To be her imperfect, broken, often incapable self. And to know that he probably loved her more because of it.
I put pen to paper but it doesn't move. Just creates a tiny black dot in the midst of the otherwise empty whiteness. It should flow smoothly, without stopping. Words that create sentences, paragraphs, pictures.
I haven’t written in years. Didn’t this used to be my thing? Always, my answer to the what-do-you-want-to-be-when-you-grow-up? question was Writer. I pictured myself in a Southern city, cobbled streets overhung with Spanish moss, air heavy with heat, working in my bookstore. Pigtails and overalls and barefeet. Chatting with the regulars. Sipping coffee as I recommended books. Writing late into the night with a gray cat purring around my ankles.
And, somewhere along the line, it became a vision and nothing more. An ideal but not a pursued goal. Maybe, someday, eventually, it would happen. But I stopped working towards it. I got a cat and I named her Flannery O’Connor, but she wasn’t as sweet and purr-y and inspirational as I thought she would be. I stopped writing late into the night.
And so there is a single black dot that stares back at me as I stare at it. I imagine it twisting and winding around, creating a confluent line. A line that indicates something. One letter hooks to another and the words have meaning. They generate tears that fall in rivulets down wet cheeks and cause laughter to bubble forth. And though the emotions are momentary, the words get into people’s minds and leave an impression, like a photograph that fades over time but will never be looked at without a smile and memories.
The pen is lying motionless on the table. The words and thoughts are still trapped inside, making it feel weighty, and my hand is glad to be rid of its heaviness. I will try to free them tomorrow.
