She.

the song that inspired the pouring of words. stream of consciousness. mess of thoughts. 

She climbs into the sun-warmed seat, out of the wind, next to her cousin. "I need to write, but I've been lazy." There is an ease in the response, it flows out and over her, like a quilt. It has fewer words, more meaning. She hears words that aren't there. It's okay. You're okay. You are going to be okay.

The trees mesh together on her drive North. A song pushes her into a familiar daydream. Wonders if someone out there shares the other half.

She didn't drive to the pharmacy on the night after the last of the medication. Instead there was Laundry. Dishes. Dinner.
Folding, washing and making. She could wait a day.

It has been a day, and the piano notes are almost falling. She clings to rhythmic tasks. Door open, clothes out. Door open, clothes in. Close. Close. Fold, stack, stack, stack, stack. Up the stairs, down the stairs. Just don't sit down.

Open, water in. Close. Open, water out. Close. Teabag, milk, less sugar than last time. She sits.

It hasn't been that long, they say. Focus on yourself; it comes in waves they say.

The piano notes fall, now. She hears them and sees them and then different notes fall from her eyes. She reminds herself of the missed trip, and inhales the heat from the cup below.  Emptiness filled the only way she knows how: usefulness, exercise, deep breaths.  The daydream comes back; it always does. Feeds her soul, fills the balloon, consumes her.



Spinning on the floorboards, sun setting on humidity and a sticky cotton dress. Railings full of mason jars with weeds and wildflowers. Baby clothes on the line, the ones that they fit sleeping softly. He spins her, and she laughs into the warm light.