There I sat in her living room watching this precious woman, my grandmother-in-law, play her special version of patty-cake with my fifteen-month-old daughter. I couldn’t understand the words (they were in another language), but the affection was clear.
His music demands something. Creativity. Thought. A story. But not its own—Honestly, I can’t understand any of the Italian—instead, it lets me make up mine. His English words? They swirl around and around, blocking out the world. Blissful white noise that invites inspiration.
Not the football one. Or the one that sends young men to war.
But the written one that sits for days, weeks, months, years, waiting to be finished. That lingers in your Word docs or your file cabinet or your WordPress admin labeled “draft,” waiting for you to hit the post button.
But somehow, something’s missing and you can’t figure out what. So it loiters, haunting you.