I have been trying to write a memoir story for several weeks, and it is not working out because I am having trouble remembering events and experiences in my life. I am also a mom and a full-time teacher, and these two things take up a lot of my time and headspace, so it’s been difficult to indulge in the deep thinking and creativity that helps me organize my thoughts. So all I’ve got for now is a poem about this disorganized inner state of being.
I wanted to open with an airy lightness,
some easy brilliance that reads with a musicality to it.
But it’s not like that at the moment.
I am again in the midst of a wishy-washy voyage ...
I know that makes me sound like a toy in a bathtub,
and that’s what it is, with no knowledge of the child
who is supposed to get me out of here,
but who instead splashes water all over the place
and thinks I like it.
Sometimes (no, often) I ask myself what it would be like
if I could follow my dreams;
but that would require recognizing them,
and—believe it or not—at 40 years old, life is still