it is the twelfth of may and I write to you from the skies. the pen I use was bought specifically for this journal and now it’s running low on ink. only six months I’ve kept this, a year or two shy of the average length of time I’ve managed to hold onto one of these. but I’ve never filled this many pages, and I’ve never run out of ink.
there was some turbulence a while ago and the man beside me placed an open palm on his wife’s pregnant belly. the way she giggled has been stuck in my mind since. I’m in the aisle seat, my sister and her son a few rows ahead, and I can hear their laughter just the same. part of me wonders if I ever did that for my mama. if, as a child, I made her laugh without effort. none of the stories I’ve been told involve laughter but I like to think there was (probably, hopefully?) lots of it. there’s so little I remember, anyway and that’s far too cynical a thought to engage with. I’ll leave that there.
I’m praying for quiet. I look around and the people ask nothing of me. out the window, a final slice of day is falling beneath the curves of the earth. I always write more honestly in this light. the mornings are for thinking, at noon I can’t think at all and my nights are always saddled with responsibilities. but at twilight, the noise disappears. at transitional times, I allow myself stillness. everything else can move but I won’t. even on the ground (at home), I get a few moments for myself (usually) and can write out all my desires, my secret wishes, my fears which I then wash it all away with faith. deep down, I want nothing more than what my Lord ascribed for me. but, yes, it’s honest to dream. maybe I ought to remind myself of that more often — that it’s fine to want more for myself and it doesn’t make me ungrateful.
there is so little ink left, I have to stop writing. this feels like it should mean something more significant but I just wish I had brought another pen with me.
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