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The Blank Page

Some days the blank page intimidates. It’s been too long. And so I creep up to it like I would our cat after vacation, with gentle fingers that ask, “Do you remember me?”

But the page only waits.

And so I press them. The keys. And they become less new. They invite me like my own pillow. The one that is the right amount of flat, the one with its stains and tears, that is not pretty enough for company, the one that droops half on the mattress and half off. The one that knows me.

The blank page does not throw a lifeline. It merely is. A lifeline. Catching emotions that bump and shove against my heart and threaten to uncork in some ungodly manner and in some unseemly place, if not for words. And a place to put those words.

But sometimes the blank page is inaccessible. Restrained by time. By children. By crap and clutter. And so when we meet again, we shake hands like friends whose absence from each other limits the conversation to talk about the rain outside the window and how long it will last. Until by some miracle, by some bold admission, one friend says, “my boy’s sick,” or “I’m not sure what to do about ___,”  and the dam cracks. And the emotions the dam has restrained trickle out in single file. At first. A burp of happiness here. A belch of confusion.

Until, there is no dam.

And all that’s left is a new blank page. A friend. A confidante. Welcoming inadequacy and failure, gentleness and faith. To rest. Here.

One word at a time.

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2 Responses to “The Blank Page”

  1. Bethany Grasley says:

    Wow. That is like beautiful poetry. I loved it! You certainly have “a way” with words my friend!

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