Imagine a writer. A house full of family. Noise and clutter.
A Samsung fridge starting its engines. Wrooom, the fan grumbles, shedding its ice clumps from the blades.
The coolers are packed, full of the food that typically reside in the fridge.
The mom, hungover on prolific words, trips over them on the way to make coffee.
Fuck, she says to the coolers.
Coffee is good. Hot. Wakes her up.
Words flow through her veins, like the coffee does.
She longs to type what’s on her mind.
She should be making a list.
The coolers are distracting her. So is the man stomping around at the back of the house.
The boy will need an Xray, he states, reminding the mom to start her list.
She has other things on her mind.
But the family is stirring. It’s raining. A dog is coming over. The empty fridge is distracting. Food in coolers need transforming into school lunches.
There is no time for mom’s words today.
Mom is sipping a second coffee dreaming about cabins.
And She Sheds.
Here comes the girl.
There will be no words today. Today, mom is a mom, not a writer.