Once Upon a Wind

They say that writing the first thing that comes to mind is called "off the top of your head." I strongly disagree. It feels more like taking a ladle and scooping up the black mush from the bottom, then throwing it at a piece of paper and praying that it turns into something that someone, somewhere, will understand. It reminds me of exploring, young hands into the depths of a murky pond, hoping to find tadpoles, but scared of stickers and stingers that await more in the back of children's minds than in the mossy layers.
I don't know how I'm going to end this one, as I've not even come up with a start yet. I'm not thinking anything in particular, I'm not feeling much at all except the need to write. An urgent nagging in my chest that's telling me to type, even though I'm tired, my head is pounding, and my eyes are sagging.

So I sit here, listening to my mother sigh in the kitchen behind me, dishes in the sink being washed, stove heating, preparing for the meal that was barely scraped together, washer humming in the background; sound of clinking, purring, chopping, churning. Smells in the air of remnants of tortilla soup, the heated metal smell of stove burners and running dishwashers, faint laundry soap and cool water. She prays for the bills to stop and the money to start; for her family to have food and shelter from the wicked winds and sun.
The dog now takes its queue to sigh. Thoughts of meaty bones and gravy, a friendly hand to stoke her chin. But another walks by, unnoticing of her empty food bowl; "Uncaring," she must think. Perhaps even vulgar, pompous, self-righteous beings. Mother strips hamburger and places it in the awaiting pan, thought the dog, and I can't even get a kibble. Dog worries of play time, exercise, food, water, sun, wind; for someone to take notice of her rumbling belly and dry tongue.

Daughter sits at computer; staring, fingers moving but thought not needed: she knows the words, trained fingers know what to do. Slowly, she drifts away from her home, away from the place of hunger, pain, yelling. Away from the place of sadness and hurt. She tries not to think of sisters crying, mothers pursing their dry lips, brothers lost in the wind, fathers who haven't cared for years. Her thoughts stay away from the world of credit cards and bills. Away from the land where refrigerators are always empty. Away from the place where tears are a daily routine. Away from the house where screaming is an act of charity.
In her words, she is safe. There are rules to be followed. There are patterns to be formed. In her world she doesn't have to try every night to make him happy because he's so far away. In her world he stands behind her, whispering with giddy smiles the words she needs to write. She loves him; that's enough to make him happy. Here, in her world, she can hold him.

End.
Start.
Daydream.
Wake.

But perhaps I think too much.


-2009