I was off the hook then. Being feverish and fuzzy-headed snagged me a six-day pass. Expectations for creativity ebb low in a small sea of sweat and snot.
Not pretty. But in some brief moments there were ideas — unpathetic and unugly ideas — that could have pulled me here, dragged me up onto the sand to start again. To commit them to something safe, something a little more permanent.
And I thought about them as I looked upward, floating, faint light skimming across my face. But I let them drift away from me. Until the undertow of illness dragged them to their deaths.
Sitting here now, I think I can see their ghosts: filmy and flimsy. Flirting apparitions. Or maybe it’s just the seahorses: the forth and froth of my sick six days. Now barely visible from shore.
barbara fletcher 