Anxious to Return

My blog has stopped being what it used to be … out of necessity.

For sometime now I’ve been keeping my fingers hunched over the keys, holding them back from all of the things I want to say. I am being watched, and no that is not paranoia seeping in with old age-ish-ness.

It’s an odd turn of life to live a portion of it in a fishbowl. For these odd months, I’ve been mom on parade, not just to my friends but to the social workers, and helpers, my family and the kids’ family too. Many people don’t bother to look of course — they are far too busy with their own lives– but some do, of course.

They ask questions and they give compliments. They praise me and Colin and look at us in wonder.

All of that leads me to this awkward place … mom-not-mom.  I am doing the job of mom each day, but I still feel just left of normal, not a part of the crowd of the righteous womb-bearers. It’s subtle but there anyway, that tiny question: “How would I feel different if they came out of me?”

At the moment, I am not unhappy or frustrated about this, just a bit anxious.


by Connie Wanek

First you’ll come to the end of the freeway.
Then it’s not so much north on Woodland Avenue
as it is a feeling that the pines are taller and weigh more,
and the road, you’ll notice,
is older with faded lines and unmown shoulders.
You’ll see a cemetery on your right
and another later on your left.
Sobered, drive on.
Drive on for miles
if the fields are full of hawkweed and daisies.
Sometimes a spotted horse
will gallop along the fence. Sometimes you’ll see
a hawk circling, sometimes a vulture.
You’ll cross the river many times
over smaller and smaller bridges.
You’ll know when you’re close;
people always say they have a sudden sensation
that the horizon, which was always far ahead,
is now directly behind them.
At this point you may want to park
and proceed on foot, or even
on your knees.

From “The Writer’s Almanac”

Elizabeth Howard

Elizabeth writes literary non-fiction, haiku, cultural rants, and Demand Poetry in order to forward the cause of beautiful writing. She calls London, Kansas City, and Iowa home. 

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