Don't Say It

I won’t say it.  I wouldn’t want it to become a useless burden.

But I am thinking of how nice it would be if I could just put down a few words on these white spaces each day of this year.  What a nice exercise for my little heart that would be.  Twenty-four hour fitness for the bottled up words and all of their aging children.

We’ll see.  I’m just thinking now, you know.

I’m also thinking that I will put this bloggy blog on my own site this year.  It is about time for new dresses.  Again.

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This morning my mobile phone was all ‘a buzz.  The alarm was yelling and yelling.  (Don’t say it, Morning.)  Well, in my best REM I must have pressed “snooze” and pushed the phone off its own resting place.

Mobile phone then drops into the caverns of my bookshelf.  The one that Mama has been after me to clean out for years.  That one.

Mobile continues to buzz ‘a plenty.  (Ok ok ok.  I’m up, honey.)  But I cannot find it.  The bookshelf is an ocean.

I am pushing books around sloppily, and they all fall aside.  We’re all exhausted.  It feels I am profanely rearranging the addresses of old friends.  I need my coffee, Alarm.

And then I find it.  Not the mobile phone.  I find my tattered and beloved copy of Letters to a Young Poet, my original.  The one I thought I’d given to someone in Portugal, never to no never see again.  The one with a multitude of colored underlines from different years and the life confessions in the margins.  Oh, Rilke.

The first day of the year.  Thank you.