Here's where I come when there's nowhere else to go. Home? Maybe that's what home is. Blank page, blank head, blank fingers.  Just for a week. Every day for a week. Here's how it starts. I'll come back home.

It starts abstract like this. Saying nothing just to stop saying nothing at all. Obtuse until I can relearn language. I  mean, what I mean is, until I can learn to tell stories again. I mean, until I'm not afraid. I'm mean, until I can, no matter that I'm fucking quaking with every key stroke. I mean, until I remember courage. I mean until I don't give a fuck.

For now just me on the couch, leaned back in pillows, breaking down the last two minutes, two hours, two weeks, two years, two days, two decades. Two girls asleep in two rooms down my one short hall, and Amelia with her brand new spine. Low fever sleep. Twelve days post surgery. I'm out on the couch trying to turn thoughts into sense. Trying to keep myself from tabbing over to facebook every time my mind stalls, trying to find a new place to live. Trying to find my same old home.

It's half-way through January, the winter of spring. Out on my walk today Camillas blooming, cherry blossoms. Fucking cherry blossoms in January. Mama earth she's just as confused as me.

I don't know what I come to say. I'm just breaking down a week of hospital sunrises, Keeping watch while my babies sleep.