I would

I would write about the weather, but the weather fortunetellers always blame it on other countries, and I’m not interested in blaming the rain on anyone, ever.

I would write about politics, but the pundits point fingers. I would like to keep my fingers to myself, use them to stir my coffee when I can’t find a spoon, use them to zip up the jackets of two little girls I know. I use my fingers to type, because it saves my fucking life to do so.

I would write about sports, but there are a lot of contact sports out there, and I don’t want to bash heads. Ever. This is not my style.

I would write about the recession, but I am the recession. What a bore I am. We are all the recession. What bores we are. We can’t help ourselves. We are all beggars right now.

I would write about health, but it leaves me stammering. Too much to say. No oxygen tent, no tubes, and yet. Tedious. Forgive me. I say this without anger. I say all of this without anger or malice. ‘Fucking life’? Passion, frustration, self-knowledge. I point to myself.

I would write about Amnesty, Greenpeace, good works, but the best words have been used. So I use the word atone instead–a solemn but kind word, a bridge reaching across a river, not sure it will meet the riverbank. Meet me at the riverbank. We can bow and recognize that the river is bigger than the bridge.

I would write about world events. Except that I am already writing about world events. As I understand them. Through this lens. Right now, the lens is small. It may widen, it may not. I tend to my lens, keep it clean as best I can. I have breathtaking little girls who watch me for clues about how to understand their world, clues about finding words for the most difficult times. You and you and you and you and you do too. I see this as a precious responsibility. So do you. You and you and you and you and you. The pronoun is not sharp-edged.

I write. I point to myself. I point to myself. I point to myself. That is all I have. That is all I can do. This is what I do.