The Hollow Woman

The hollow woman walks.

There's a cart of groceries. She reminds herself she's shopping. For food. Stuff. Things that make sense somewhere. She doesn't have a list. Lists are for people who make plans. She doesn't have plans. She doesn't want any more plans. Plans die.

The air moves around her. Parting like water for a boat. Not a big boat. Maybe a kayak. Solitary and insignificant and she can't tell if she's the kayak or the person in the kayak. Either way, she walks.

The hollow woman sighs.

More like she moves air with her body, or kayak, or whatever she is. Sighs carry significance and this breath has none. It's just air.

The hollow woman waits.

There are people moving more slowly than her. Than her. The Hollow Woman doesn't care about grammar. She's just waiting for those two ships full of cargo and noise to get out of her way. Decide on a queue. Move on. Out of her way.

The hollow woman is quiet.

Despite the small talk. Lips smile but face doesn't. Eyes fixed on the things that beep as they go by. She trades beeps for bags and parts more air. She feels it. The air. On skin that doesn't feel like her. Maybe she really is

Just a kayak.

On an ocean.

Parting air.

Locks

I lost her for a while in the shadows of my own wandering thoughts. She would peek out from behind a memory now and again, her wild hair framing her face like a blond cloud of determination. She has been waiting for too long for me to find her again. That smile she gets when she's on the hunt. The  way her eyes gleam. Hungry for a game to play. An adventure to have.

To be honest, I lost her because I locked some doors on her. She was free to roam in there, anywhere. Stalking memories, tending the ones I couldn't bear to relive because my present asked too much. Memories of her, and the games she'd play and the people she would find for me and throw at my feet as if to say, "Love him." And so many of them I loved, even when I was killing them, because that's how her story goes. It's about life and death and seizing control where none is really offered. Where it seems impossible. She always found a way. And the body count climbed while I just listened. Let her be her. God, how I missed her. That unapologetic control she had.

But body counts and stable children don't mix. So I had to lock her away in bits and pieces. The first time, she looked confused, so I drew my breath. Held it and closed my eyes.I locked the door while I made breakfast. A thousand of them. Another lock while I drove to ballet a thousand times. And gymnastics. And Girl Scouts. And swim lessons. And bedtimes.

And she became so used to the locks that she started using them herself...she locked me out of her secret places. Made sure I knew I didn't belong in her world any more, and my heart broke with each snick of the lock. Until what was left was pieces of me scattered around the last dooor she closed.

Once in a while, that door was opened, a hand slipped out. Snatched a piece. The door slammed. Locked. Piece by piece. She was always, always there collecting the pieces and parts. Doing what with them, I couldn't know.

Until one day, she stepped from behind the darkest clouds. With a reassemled Me in her hands. He smile was softer than it ever had been before all the doors and locks and angry dismissals. And the me she gave me was different, too.Still hungry. Still me. But ready this time.

And she was ready, too.

To be a partner.

To be me.

To let me tell her story without consuming me.

Writer's Constipation

I'm not sure I'd call it writer's block, so much as writer's constipation. It's all in there, just jammed up. Every once in a while, a thought breaks loose, and I can follow it for a short while, but never for long. Certainly not for long enough. But at least I have a full sized keyboard back. I had been without for far too long.

I missed it.

I miss writing. I miss falling in love with a time and place that's all my own, then sharing it because my mind isn't big enough to hold it all at once. I miss the feeling I get after I finish a piece...or a piece of a piece. The emotional exhaustion, combined with the high of just wanting more, of feeling more but more isn't left. More has to wait until I find my place again.

I miss the quiet. The kind that surrounds me like a cloud while my thoughts form and dissipate. The way the room sounds when it's full of thoughts that don't have words until my fingers find the right keys. The way I can relax into myself, no worries.

I miss this.

But I'm finding it again.

Piece by piece.

Peace by peace.