We set a timer and just write whatever comes to mind. We don’t worry about grammar, punctuation and whether is looks right or not. We just write because it’s what we love to do.
5 minutes. No proof-reading. No going back to edit. Just write.
Todays subject is She
She stares out of her picture framed boundaries. Stoic, straight, her hand on the shoulder of the man seated in the chair before her. She stands tall and proud. In that face that I have never smiled into I see the traces of the woman who held my tiny infant fingers in her own as she once had hers held, and I feel the gentle tug that tells me that this woman and I are connected. Tied together by blood and spirit in a way that can never be explained to one who can not feel it.
She calls to tell me that Dad and herself have been out to eat. I listen and close my eyes, picturing her face and the tilt of her head. How her eyes would widen at certain parts of the story. She doesn’t know that I stare in the mirror and analyze what of mine comes from her part of my unique blend of genetics. How I wonder if she’s done the same and how much harder it is for her knowing that both of the halves that made her whole no longer breath the air she does.
She curls her legs under her on the couch. Her laptop perched on her knees, and subtly starting anytime her fingers stop moving and the tapping sound in the quiet room stops as she pauses to gather her thoughts. She cocks her head to one side and listens for any sound from the monitor that gives an indication of something not right.
She lays asleep in her bed, her tiny hand curled under her cheek and her blanket wound around her legs. She doesn’t stir under her mothers watchful gaze, the eyes that trace her face and her form… wanting desperately to commit it all to permanent memory because all too soon there will come a time when she will stand in a door way, look in a mirror, stare at a picture and wonder too.