I instantly fell in love with my grandmother’s sister. That marvelous great-aunt of mine who, when I was just a little girl, presented me with half of a cantaloupe filled with vanilla ice cream.
“Oh who cleans their plate?” Was her confident reply to my grandma’s objection over the food left on our plates. She was bold. She was witty. And I wanted to be just like her.
But today I wasn’t like her. Today, with all of the force of a grandmother wanting a clean plate, I made myself sit–demanding a riveting piece of prose before I could get up from the table. And, with all of the stubbornness of a strong-willed child, inspiration refused to give in.
I sat, pondered, surfed, read, wrote and un-wrote until–just as my head was about to pop–I realized that maybe today I just wasn’t hungry for words.
Maybe today–like a farmer who leaves his house before dawn–I needed some good hard work to help regain my appetite.
Maybe today I needed to stop and do the dishes.
