Not Writing, but…

Then: morning–brisk and blue, damp grass, cat paw prints on the pergo, budgie whistling at finches picking the white fly from the hibiscus monster outside the kitchen window, the boy enjoying his breakfast, sun, sun, sun.

Last night my husband and I reclined on my office, pillows at our backs, our work tethered securely to the fringes of the evening. We reconnected on a Thursday night—not complaining, but sharing. Reconnecting must be something we love to do as suddenly it was after 10p.m. and neither of us knew where the time had gone, only that we had heard fresh stories and peeked into respective daily goings-on. He went back to work and I turned off the light, listening to our house breathe, a poem forming in my head, not a pinch of angst in any firing synapse.

The cleansing quality of communication.

About PB Rippey

Writer, wife, mother, grateful. Fiction, memoir, poetry, kidlit (MG), member SCBWI.
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Words do not escape you

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