It is 8:05 pm.
My son is in bed though maybe not asleep.
I stand, hands in dishwater, thinking about the book we were just reading, reviewing my to-do list.
I have to clean the table. Pull down the blinds. Close the windows.
I remind myself to prepare the oatmeal for the morning.
What will I give my son for lunch? Maybe a turkey sandwich. And there’s that bread he never ate from today.
What do I have to do tomorrow?
Write. And England plays at noon.
Oh, and I need gifts for the teachers.
Right now, though, I have to put the clean dishes away.
Before I can get to that, a line pops into my head. It’s good. Then there’s another.
I can’t lose them.
Wiping my dripping hands on my pants, droplets trailing along the floor after me, I move to the little table in the kitchen, sit down and start writing.
It is 8:29.
I write. And write. It flows easily at night, and first thing in the morning, too.
The next time I look up, the clock reads 9:52.
It can’t be. The night is almost done but I am not. I should be almost in bed. But I still have that lunch to make and the oatmeal. And the dishes are only half washed.
The thing is, this writing is fun. I’m enjoying myself. I like what I’ve written. It may even be good. So I write some more. I can’t help smiling a big, happy smile, even though I know I’ll be tired again tomorrow.