Left to Write

It’s a slow morning

The energy has been making its way back

I’m not sure when I’ll be at 100

For now, I’m happy to be upright and mobile.

My achy left and crackly right push across the keys.

The dehumidifier quietly plies its trade, the birds outside the window are not nearly as active as they were this morning

And my afternoon brain is not nearly as active as it was this morning

Bird brain, eh.

The sounds of construction continue unabated

A lone dog growls and barks

The frogs in the local pond sing to me

Get to work

We’re busy over here

I remember to step outside of my Magic Picture Box to be a parent and ask down the stairs

R, are you in your zoom?

Yup

S, did you get started?

Not yet

Ok, get to it in the next break please.

They’re doing okay, honestly. Often I feel like they’re better at this than I am. Young, malleable cortexes, all synapses firing, all the time, making sense of what to me still so often feels foreign.

And if they’re okay, then there’s nothing left for me, except being left to write.

So I start

From left to right

With my left, and my right

Until there’s no more write left.