I can't write

a list of excuses

I can’t write¹, because I used up nap time playing Mendelssohn. I was just going to take a picture of the music, but then I couldn’t resist. The instrument under my chin felt like a long lost limb, foreign, but familiar. My ear still heard what my fingers fumbled. Maybe none of it’s as forgotten as I think. If concertos are encoded in my body, what other stories do I know that I never tell? 

I can’t write because even though a million sentences run through my head during the day, they’ve somehow managed to take flight by the time I sit down at the end of the day. I wonder if I’ll ever write an essay as brilliant as the ones I compose while washing my hair. I’ve started setting a timer, because those shower essays are making me late everywhere I go.

I can’t write because I got a message asking “Is later okay, or do you need me home now.” And I said, “Have fun!”, because marriage is like that sometimes.

I can’t write, because songs needed to be sung and stories needed to be read. Teeth nee…