I write and write my soul, but she refuses to cooperate. Maddening. I reach for images that dance across my radar screen, then skip away without taking form.
Sometimes the ideas crowd each other, like bubbles floating in bathwater, one attaching to the other. Rarely can I discern that solitary gem, floating alone.
When my baby girl was barely five years old, she asked at bedtime one night, “Will you be my Mommy in my next life?” Well, that was a zinger plopped in the middle of a somewhat shaky mommy-hood experience . The moment was surreal, and at the same time concrete as a jersey wall. I couldn’t help but wonder if she had already decided in her very short life that once around with me would be quite enough, thank you very much.
Some say that the very young among us remember the place from which they recently came, the other world. Their souls live in both places for awhile. Then they forget. We all forget, and eventually we all become fugitives from the realm of before, the sanctuary where souls wander.
So I wonder… what might I have written when I was newly born, when I remembered my soul?
Marsha spent eighteen years in the classroom, teaching middle and high school English. Now retired, she's re-learning how to enjoy free time, writing, and reading.