It’s hard for me to give my writing space. Sometime I suffocate it, or maybe it’s the other way around, my writing suffocates me.

Always, life, forces the space between. Gus wakes up, and it’s time for the day to begin. The writing and the writer are separated and may or may not meet again until well after 7:00pm.

Yesterday, the thought of a small open wound and leaving it to bleed came to mind. I realized that is what I feel when leaving an unfinished piece of writing, specifically when the content is meaningful or difficult for me.

I was writing a poem for Gus, but the poem became mostly about me. I drew on lessons that I had learned from my childhood, and imagined Gus learning them one day. In short, what I was writing, mattered to me.

I had come close to finishing it, when I heard Gus stirring and the clock ticking. I would soon be pulled away from my writing and there would be no resolution. I felt the wound, and the unsettling feeling of leaving it open.

Sometimes, you find your resolution when you are not writing, but when you are living. I know this, but I don’t trust it–not yet anyway. I’m kneeling with Gus at his cubby at school, helping him to take his coat off, and I find it. The last line of my poem is sitting on his soft, round cheek– it’s a loose, long eyelash.

I brush Gus’s eyelash away, and it sticks to the underside of my finger, just like I know that it will. I gaze at his eyelash, resting at the tip of my finger. Then, I’m there, seven-years-old again, making a wish–and I know what I need to write.


Here is yesterday’s poem for those who may not have read it and are curious.


Remember that a toad will pee in your hand if you hold it for too long.

Remember that it’s the blue snow cones that stain your lips and tongue.

Remember that, almost always, the line for the tilt-a-whirl is worth the wait.

Remember to let fallen soft, long pine needles tickle the bottoms of your feet.

Remember that when the moonlight filters through the trees, to turn off your flashlight.

Remember to quickly rip, not peel, the bandaid from the scrape on your knee.

Remember that the eyelash you find on your cheek is worth at least one wish.

10 thoughts on “Wounds”

  1. What a lovely slice–this is something that rings true to me as I’m trying hard to finish the revisions on my chapter book so that I can submit it to an agent before the craziness of summer begins. However, I’m not making the time to get my butt in the chair, and when you said “the writer and writing are separated” that is so very true here in my case. But then…the answer about how to start my book and the inspiration for my book came from the “real world,” and I recognize the balance of living and writing. I don’t have it down yet, but I’m working on it… Wonderful slice, and very nice poem! Really loved it.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Beautiful! I love the remembers you gave him and hope that he remembers to stay young as long as he can! I love that your ending came from a real moment with him, that made it so impactful.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Love how you found the inspiration for your last line. It is hard to tear ourselves away from something that has its hold on us forcing us to leave it unfinished. Your analogy to a wound is perfect.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Sometimes our words need to marinate across the day. It is important to remember that as we live our lives we are collecting and rehearsing. Your poem has benefited from a little distance the day afforded it. The remember refrain has produced words of beauty. Some lessons for you. Some lessons for those of us who visited today. An important post.

    Liked by 1 person

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