I Hear Dead People

Sometimes, on days when the computer screen or the notebook page taunts me with its stoic blankness, I wish I heard dead people.  

I wish a dead person, or a live person, or even one of my chickens, would come tiptoeing up behind me on their wispy ghost feet, or their squeaky new Chuck Taylors, or their tiny little chicken claws, and whisper in my ear.  I wish they would say, "Miss Portia (they are southern--they have nice manners), here is what you will write today.  These are the words you will use."

And then my hands would fly.  Fly.  Across that page, over the keys. And then, the writing would be done.  I would sit back and read what I had written and be surprised.  I would be grateful. I would be tired. I would be glad.

But, no matter how hard I may sit and stare, no matter how long I may wait or how many salt-throwing, wood-knocking wishes I may wish, there is no person, dead or alive, no clucking, cooing chicken, to give me the words.  There is only me.  There is only the pen, or the computer keys.  There is only that.

And that will have to be enough.