Monday, July 29, 2013

She Trusts Me

She trusts me.

Sure, plenty of people do. I'm trustworthy. I don't blab secrets. I do my best not to let anybody down.

But she isn't anybody.

And she trusts me.

I turn the words over on my tongue, toss them with spinach for lunch and add the salty twist of sunflower seeds, already shelled.

She trusts me.

I referee the boy battle in my living room and change into pajama pants, a fluffy red robe, my writer hat, metaphorically.

I need to repaint my toenails. I haven't had a pedicure in going on four years.

She trusts me.

She has given me a gift, more precious than she realizes, I think - this trust

in me.

My book is open, cover and pages splayed, and I would normally be engrossed in the story. It's a new story by a favorite author and a friend. I don't pick up my book. I rearrange my own novel, consider critique, and play ping pong with ideas. I want this so bad. I want this so bad I could cry. I can taste success. I can see my book on a shelf. I try to picture its cover.

I read her words again.

She trusts me.

I am feeling alone tonight, sending husband off to going away party for someone we care about, unable to muster the energy and motivation to dress myself and go with him. I don't have it in me to take my kids out in public tonight. I am tired from their constant bickering. I live with the mother's emotional version of tsunami. I am wiped

out.

But my words are open on this screen, and her words are there as well.

She trust me.

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