Writing is like Poison Oak

These musings.. these words.. they annoy me. I didn’t say anything. . did not ask for it. My skin is on fire for standing too closely to an idea of something.. scratching an itch that does not go away. Persists it does from deep in the marrow, leaving a trail of itch that festers just below the surface of my skin. I may die tomorrow and will have not done a damn thing! My accomplishments would fit on the flap of a book of matches – in small print.

But who cares? The man on the corner sifting treasures to swap for a smidgeon of scrap does not. There in his eyes you will see that he is his own measure struggling to be alive.

A housewife longs to be understood. She longs to participate, but can’t remember how. She toils with her own understanding to know purpose. As her kids grow, so too does her longing to regress to earlier days; to have a second chance.

A large wave crashed on top of us. The impact forced us under to fight against a current that was relentless. I was told to suit up. Flashing lights echoed through a tight steel hallway that pitched from starboard to aft, rolling violently.

The harness was buckled into the life suit that tethered me to the railing just down below the wheel house where shadows were cast from instrument lights as they chartered and scrambled to deal with keeping us afloat.