Marginalia

It is a cozy January morning, and tired and half-asleep as I am, I feel like writing again. I sit here in a sort of a whiteout as the sky and the world outside this apartment slowly comes to life. And the faint tone of the alarm in the other room makes me smile for I know she will take her time to wake up regardless. I make my coffee and sit with the keyboard to begin again. I write the first sentence.

And then, I write it again, and then, I write it again, and it occurs to me that apologies are in order for I have wasted the moment, the stride in all my busy-ness, that the words do not wait for anyone, and now, I shall be stuck forever, and that apologies are in order, but then, I look up. I look up at the light coming out the window, and I realise that this morbid business does not belong here, does not belong today, and to the now. The birds chatter outside as if there is some great news about, and there is! I have picked it up again—the proverbial pen. And what candle does this fallow hold to the abundance of words that is, that will be in my life? It flickers and disappears. What choice does it have?

The refrigerator’s hum fills the air while the faint alarm continues to ring in the other room and claims authority. I stop writing and stretch my fingers once—this is not as easy as it has always looked. Then, I stop altogether and get off the couch. I must go wake her up, and I must sit with her and whisper sweet nothings. The words can wait. The world can wait. A lot of it can stay put till we begin this day. There will be time to do the rest. I have since learned there is an order of precedence to things, to life, and that living it trumps almost everything else. How silly that this of all things is my newfound insight. How silly indeed.