Much of writing might be described as mental pregnancy with successive difficult deliveries. (J.B. Priestley, author)
My keys are missing. The entire ring. It could be smashed on the expressway or recovered by a bird searching for shiny objects. I don’t worry. I panic. The keys could be anywhere in five states. As far away as eight-hundred miles. My husband did all the driving. My car sleeps in front of our house.
In the meantime, I breathe. Slowly in and out. It takes time to lose the difficult moments and embrace both my sense of humor and the many beautiful memories that swim through my mind. The picture taken in the Poconos is one of many examples.
The last load of wash is in the dryer. My older son calls and tells me I don’t need to go to the dealer to get a car key replacement. Walmart automotive has more reasonable prices.
Gratitude. It fits. I hope mama crow uses our house key as a worm plate for her newly hatched chick.
Loss. May it create room for blessings. Room for words that celebrate those blessings.
terrypetersen 