This is the fourth post I've started since deciding to blog. And I'm not sure this will be published. I feel like these things are a little (a lot) self-indulgent. In the back of my head and tip of my tongue, I think I'm too good to share my silliness this publicly. I would prefer to be naked in front of a crowd.
But I'm home, sick. And homesick. It probably isn't a coincidence that one follows that other. I was thinking about all the things Gram does whenever one of the kids is sick. The humidifier, the vapor rub, the tea, ice chips, the chicken soup that she pretends to have made but we all know she is too busy to actually make chicken soup from scratch, and so on. It's a whole production and I really enjoyed it (the attention, not the illness). In my nyquil-induced haze, I tried re-creating it. And ended up with a fever.
I think I would make a great fiction writer. Not that I am a good writer but I have this imagination and ability to believe my own stories to be true. It comes out most when I'm homesick. I forget the drama, the heartbreak, the betrayal and loneliness and suddenly remember that time Gram read stories from my favorite book while I was propped up on the couch eating chicken and stars, bundled in one of the thousands of homemade quilts that told me I was in a safe place. I take that one moment, break it up into pieces and re-assemble it into scenes that better fit my into the world I wish I grew up in. I don't think most of it actually happened except in my version of the story. The less fun stuff gets pushed aside and buried, only peeking it's head out occasionally when I'm not paying attention.
Gramp used to tell me to keep writing until I felt that I had said everything I came to say. I should've asked him what to do when I don't have anything to say but just want to share.
