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Writing now feels like I am beginning in the middle of things instead of the beginning.  As a woman who is mildly OCD, it’s important to start at the beginning, chapter one, with the first word, not leaping haphazardly around from thought to thought like a cricket on a hot skillet. Ever see a bead of mercury slide this way and that, it doesn’t know where it’s going but for the hands that are tilting the surface it sits upon?  That’s how I feel these days, and it doesn’t lend itself to much creativity.

Starting this story at the end makes no sense, but I have limited time to write and less mental energy to do so.  So here goes. My father is at the end of his life’s journey courtesy of cancer. My brother uprooted his whole life and moved back here to be with him as he goes through this, these last eight months. They lived in my house in the finished basement apartment and renewed their familial bonds. My brother is handling as much as he can because he’s not working a full time job as I am.  He is handling everything beautifully and we have full confidence in him.  I struggle with the guilt of getting to work on time and trying to be a good worker bee, making lots of mistakes because I’m a tad angry and preoccupied (tad=very) instead of being by their sides. In the meantime, I’ve closed the valves on creativity for now.

Today I’m applying for FMLA (family medical leave), and I hope they don’t give me too much garbage about it. But it needs to be done and they can just deal with it.   Just like the pile of laundry on the couch needs to be folded and two-day old dishes in the sink need to be washed.  There is coffee in my cup now and… I hope I won’t come home too tired to have a beer before bed as it has been for the last eleven days.

Create in a storm when the heart is breaking and the mind has no clue what it’s thinking? I suppose it will come back eventually.  It did once before.  Until then, I have a pile of clean socks to keep me company.