Her bare feet slide out from under the white bed sheets. Just a moment later I hear the familiar rustle of the fluffy sheets as she takes on a more comfortable position. She cuddles her pillow. “Sorry?”, she mumbles.

I flip the last pancake, take a sip from my tea and look out the window. A misty morning. “What if I wrote more?”, I reply.

“Would you read it?”

I stack the final pancake on the other two. Toppings: whipped cream, blue berries and a sprinkle of maple syrup. My glasses get steamy as I pour hot water into her mint filled cup. I carry over the cup to the night stand and gently place the stack of pancakes beside her on the bed.

A quick kiss on her forehead. Under my breath: “I’d like that.”

Writing is an effort to capture the thoughts that would otherwise take hold of me.

Sometimes, not often, I put down a series of characters, words and sentences and it feels like a warm embrace. A distant relationship reacquainted.

I neglected these thoughts, thinking that would bury them without them leaving or changing. In reality they resurface just as you thought you stopped missing them.

To embrace a thought is to acknowledge it, for better or worse. It’s like Schrödinger’s cat. These thoughts have the potential to shatter into a ton of tiny painful shards or they might grow into something beautiful. Neglecting them, keeping the box closed, feels like leaving both options open. Feels, because who am I fooling but myself? As much as I might stand still, life ticks away. And it’s the only one I’ve got, so it’s settling for less. That seems more painful than those tiny shards could ever be.

I think I’ll write more.