Usually, the words come in the morning. After the hustle of our routine, just after coffee and backpacks and clanking breakfast dishes and eastward sun. Just after the kids are at school, and the post-kid silence descends over my car, the words usually come.
But lately, they’ve been coming at night. Just after I feel the heaviness of my eye lids, just after I turn out the light and nestle into the soft refuge of my sheets and listen to the tree frogs and the cicadas serenade the dark, and adjust my head just so
the words come.
Different fragments and phrases and sentences raise their letter-laden hands,
ooooooh oh! choose me! choose me!
If I try to ignore them, they clamor and crescendo so
I abide them and pull open my nightstand drawer and the sound of the wood scraping against wood echos in my room. I pull out my notebook. I open the page and uncap my black pen. I hunch over the leather bound journal resting in my pajama-clad legs. I give the words a platform, a stage, as I sit in the dark with the cicadas and the tree frogs and the night.
And I write.