I don't want this post to be about motherhood. Or my baby boy. Or housekeeping. Or dreams. What I want to say is wrapped up with the Christmas decorations and put away in the garage. It's high on a shelf, waiting, waiting for someone to open it up and smile and sing and take in it like one long delicious breath in a forest after being cooped up in a dirty, smelly city.
My words want to mean something to you. They want to sink in and come back again here and there as the words and tales in a dog-eared paperback. Maybe a little full of themselves, but they have earnest intentions. They don't wish to be photographed, headline news—at least they say—but the special note tucked in your pocket, folded and unfolded throughout the day. They want to matter in a way that makes you think about your own words and how much they can matter and how much they can hurt.
Sorry, sympathetic, eager, and giving—my words hold back a chuckle, bite their tongue, blush. They long for recognition, optimism, hope. Ignore the ignoble utterances from the past, these words want to refresh, restore, renew, revive, redefine.
But they blabber instead. They splash and flash on the page, in and out of focus. They count themselves and aim for more. More! They try to climb the mountain and trip on their clumsy feet.
What I want to say fails me. This page stays open