“I had a little bird who rested here in a bowl until she could fly again. A meadowlark.” ~ Dawn Wink, Meadowlark

In this moment, I’m living the writer’s dream.

I don’t have a book contract and my blog hasn’t taken flight–yet.

But, every day, I write.

Today is Saturday. I’m alone.

A book given to me in 2013, barely touched before, finds its way into my bed.

Starting at dawn, I savor words and underline descriptions.

A fan whirls at the foot of my bed, as the fan did at the foot of my beloved’s bed before he died, or maybe, as he died.

I deal with my demons on paper with black ink.

My Black Lab splays at the fan’s face, running in her dreams, underneath the window sill, as the curtain flaps with the morning air.

I traverse downstairs for coffee twice.

I snuggle back into propped pillows and pages.

Blank ones invite me to jam with them.

I surrender.

Next to me sits one woman’s words, sifted through ten long years as she trekked towards tenure.

Proof. Bound trees tackled and tied into story, taken up, sold at auction, compressed, pruned, and presented to the public.

The author’s words reweave my mental tapestry.

The lyrical cadence transfuses music into me.

My heart steadies, settles, and tunes my voice.

I sip coffee and remember: my mother once wished to be a writer.

She died leaving me wonder, did she ever give in to a day this delicious?