Sometimes I think they may come back.
The Stories of laughter and grief and tears and joy have always filled my life.
My heart, still filled with grateful praise, has longed for the familiar expression of my days.
But the words were gone. Lying awake at night, sometimes, fitting them together in my head, I hoped for a chance to put them down, but in the morning, the sequences were gone, and the words just did not come together the way they always have.
They did not walk away by themselves. They were stolen.
Stolen by the very things that fill the stories of my life: The grief. The laughter. The happy days. The people. The Fatigue. And even that double edged sword that we call HPPA.
There have been plenty of stories. And some were started, carefully crafted, and then discarded because, in my sadness or anger or resentment or hurt, the words were not helpful. If writing it down doesn’t help me, it’s not going to help anyone else, either.
I’ve always loved them.
I hope they come back because I really miss them.
I think there just might be a chance.
Either way, my heart gives grateful praise.