A sliver of morning light passes through the blinds and hovers over my face. It gently wakes me from my slumber. I lay there in bed, absorbing the dawn of a new day. With no set agenda, it beckons to me like the blank white pages I intend to write on today. I pull on my most comfy, cosy clothes and tie my hair up in a loose, high ponytail. Thoughts and story lines float through my mind. All I need now is my cup of tea and my pen.

“Mom! There’s no milk!” My son screams into the fridge.

“Give me a minute, I’ll go to the store!” I shout back as I grab my purse and keys and head for the front door.

And so it begins. The first task reveals itself. Then effortlessly, seamlessly the rest line up like homeless at a soup kitchen. Tummies grumbling and impatient. Gobbling up my time then presenting themselves back in the queue again.

“Don’t forget that I need my football uniform washed.” My son reminds me.

Bump, bump.

Laundry has just moved itself up a few places in the line.

I return with the milk and resolve myself to collecting all the hampers. It makes no sense to do just one item. I wash and hang it all outside to dry as the dogs circle my feet, darting through the clean white sheets. The shirts on the line are now billowing with laughter in the breeze.

“Shoo! Inside now!”

And into my kitchen they gallop and prance creating footprints like the tracings on the floor of a dance studio.

Bump, bump.

I sigh. The floor needed doing anyway.

Ring, ring.

“Hi Sis. What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Me too.

We agonize and complain we haven’t been writing. With so much time, we wonder, how are we not able to put pen to paper? We determine to make the effort and press each other to move forward. We continue to chat about kids and husbands and life but the conversation is soon abruptly cut short.

Knock, knock.

“I have to go now. Nothing is at the door.”

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