The Slow-Cooked Sentence

From broken dreams, I woke to a morning still dark with the night, to a day that started with the sleep-sound of a gun fired. There’s much to do, and I didn’t plan to make writing one of those things, yet here I sit in a small circle of light, typing as I wait for the sun to turn up. There are times when it’s hard to write, hard to find the time and the words, yet alone the ideas, to turn into sentences, and this is one of those times. Instead I’m making lists: Lists of gifts that must be made, bought or mailed, of things to accomplish around our new home, of places where the kids need to be, of activities for when guests arrive. And yet. With all that is written and then struck from the record, I find little satisfaction in writing these lists for they’re such an incomplete way to remember the brave history of today.