The problem with wanting to write, with following the thirsty urge that creeps up on my like goutweed in the wee moments of silence, is that I have to place to put it. I don’t mean the physical space, but the active memory castle, the quiet corner, the enablement of the act itself. The urge comes in a wave then passes, whispering. I ache for a moment then carry on with the laundry, petting a cat, placating a husband, yelling at children, pulling old lunches from dirty bags. It taunts me if I’m frank, with rememberances, time past when words flowed easily and the hours passed on my scheduale. The urge is a concious reminder of time as it hurdles past me as I sit baffled and oftimes lost in the wake.

My daughters grow older and I am ever so aware of their detatchment. As infants, toddlers, small children, they seemed just another piece of me, for good or ill, a segment I would some day shed like a worm. Now as they become women, I realize we were more like new risen bread, soft and sweet, made better for the wolume. They are the lodestone to the urge, this desire I harbour to somehow articulate the passage of time and it’s trickster nature. Perhaps Loki was never a person at all but rather, memory and air, silent on it’s way.They make me feel old as they cause me to remember where I have been, and how short the road has been since.

Tonight my eldest and I walked, a lazy walk in the gold spring evening. She mentioned August her birthday month was boring, and tired. Too hot. Too bored. Too bleh.

I smiled and told her that August is secretly my favorite month-not because it’s when she was born, Because my mind sees the dusty orange evenings on my bike, the warm breeze in my face, through my hair. The smell of the ballfield where pick up games would be held. The silence of the afternoons when everything seems to come to a sluggish stop and rest its head for a moment or five, the heat overwhelming desire. The sound the power lines made when the heat took over, zapping through the air. August was always a month of quiet before the world started up again.

Those memories, those slips in time, passing along to her moments she would never see with my eyes…they drive the urge I cannot quench.

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