gracing the front panel of our fridge for over a year now. (Shout out to my friend Laura who sent them to me a birthday or two ago.) They stick there, scattered nouns and verbs and adverbs in a study of chaos, congested at the top but ever falling, falling, falling like flat, rectangular raindrops right to the bottom of the fridge, where only Toby can comfortably push them around, these words he doesn't yet know beneath his fingertips. And a few times each week, as I'm reaching for the creamer in the morning or the dinner ingredients in the evening, I spot something new. A fresh trail of words someone linked together in a spare moment. Maybe Calvin. Or Nate. (But when it's way up high, all the way up by the top where we store the lunch boxes and the ant spray, I know it was Charlie.) Things like:
my fault I spilled juice that was haunted
and
know the true story
and
open a whale in ancient search
and
ask the alarm to whisper
and...
and...
and.
And between. And beneath. And sentence and spirit and hollow and hello, all floating free on the grimy white surface of the door, lost like satellites out of orbit. Waiting to be noticed, needed, peeled up and placed down, attached to the larger train of someone's thought.
Someone I love. Someone I've just asked to take out the garbage or help himself to a snack or do the dishes. Who has been momentary distracted by these tiny typed offerings lying in wait of some small or large spark of his imagination to seize them. To rearrange them. To line them up in the order they belong.
For today.
This post is part of Wordful Wednesday at Seven Clown Circus and You Capture at I Should be Folding Laundry.
