I've been writing. It's weird how it patters out, dries up and then comes bursting out again when you least expect. It's like a peevish roommate in my mind. If I'm bent out of shape about something or feeling very sad, she just closes the door and won't come out for anything. But if I'm on an even keel, or feeling quiet and thoughtful, she's up and dressed and making a huge breakfast with eggs, toast and mimosas.
After I started getting sick, it took a long time for me to be able to write again. My mind was stuck in late spring Chicago, still holding on to my last normal memories. Was I really that girl who took a Cupcake Tour of Chicago?
The present me hobbled about on a cane sometimes, lost count of all the medicines she took and longed pointlessly after her former self. To write, I had to abandon the past and take stock from my present self. It was difficult and many long, disconsolate poems came about.
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