I picked up a pen on the plane.
Not a Xanax. Not a hope and a prayer.
All I had was a pen.
“The sky is blue.
Just like the lines on this paper.
Blue is a pretty color, especially when it looks like the color of the sky…”
I’d heard the voices all week long.
For months actually. For as long as I can remember actually.
They follow me everywhere I go.
I don’t know who they are but they never have anything nice to say.
And they don’t like it when I write.
“There is a lot of white space on this paper.
Grass is green.
Green grass is pretty too and fun to play in…”
“When we get home I hope to take the kids for walks…”
I SAID IT.
“When we get home I hope”
That’s what I needed to say.
For home was the only place left to go anyway.