When I Have Nothing to Write I Listen (from The Batmom September 2012)

(One 30-minute writing sprint.)

6:31 AM

The Cat pushes a small metal dish across pine floorboards.

My refrigerator hums a near-om, letting me know she’s working. The frozen waffles are frozen and the coffee creamer’s cold. Ommmm. Namaste. Waffles.

A bird slowly chirps, too lethargically for sunshine at 6:41. His buddy squawks, sounding ugly and small.

(How is it only 6:41? I have to write until 7:01. I will kill this minute. 6:41 6:41 6:41 6:41 6:42! Continue.)

A car accelerates. GO FAST GET FINED the sign says, though I can’t hear it.

One guy utters three words. The words I can’t distinguish, but I hear their Bahstan loud and clee-ah.

Chirpity chirpity chirpity chirp. Coffee kicking in, bird perking up.

Something I don’t hear: Bird’s squawking buddy. Drinking coffee? Snagged by calico?

(The Cat will wish himself the perpetrator. I will be happy he’s not, he having a fondness for delivering dead mice to my bed.)

(Fact my son knows: Mice can squeeze through holes the size of a penny. A dime? A nickel? My son will remember. I don’t.)

A plane lowering to Logan.

(My daughter says all planes are going to Florida. Florida's a better place to land than grey East Boston, though grey East Boston’s got a racetrack and AT-AT-Walkers and a shrine, which I will someday visit because it’s there, Mary looming large.)

A huffing jogger. Huff sneaker sneaker. Huff sneaker sneaker.

A trash truck. Not our day. Callooh! Callay!

A train. We are just far away enough from the tracks. I love the mechanical thrum, big cousin to my fridge’s Ommmming. When we try to sell the condo, the listing must include the words, “antique,” “charming,” and “mechanical thrum.”

Beep beep. Not a honker, that car.

7:02 AM

One me whooping, so softly, as to not awaken the troops.


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