Literary Reflections

I catch the look of excitement and anticipation on my son’s face: it’s the moment when the possibilities are endless and the joy of creating is pure and simple, before you’ve hit any roadblocks or frustrations.

All the while, parallel to the world above, in a dark hole, burrowed beneath the dirt of the North East of America, the cicada is eight years into training for the biggest fight of her life.

In the stillness of those early pandemic days, I felt a new longing to be able to articulate my own stories.

I stowed the book inside my bag, cushioning it between two diapers, and sat in my mother’s recliner to nurse my youngest.

When our son doesn’t know the word for something, he doesn’t ask “What’s that called?” He invents his own word for it.

My son may have been sleeping through the night, but this milestone had not brought relief. I soon realized that motherhood had birthed in me a fear of rest.

I tried to push away the grief. Avoid thinking about it. I feared writing about my loss and heartbreak would unlock a sadness I couldn’t manage. Writing it down would make it permanent. 

Her back leg rises and knocks the second one off anytime it comes close to her udder. This skinny lamb cries like a human baby, and I am reminded of my own daughters’ strong bleat.

I thought I needed to travel someplace exotic and have a profound, life-changing experience in order to have something worth writing about. But I did not have the money—or the bravery—to travel around the world.

I lift the story up, wobbly and unsteady onto a new page. I search for its strength. Through revision, the narrative becomes clear.

Once, I thought that becoming a mom meant forgetting the writer. Now, I see that she never left. She’s always been there, surrounded by stories, waiting for me to find her.