The words come at this hour most every day. Like a fever. The muse lay dormant for so long I forgot what it felt like to feel her. To hold her. To listen to and be heard.
Where have you been? Why have you returned now? At this moment in my life? At this hour of the day?
Will you stay?
It’s been difficult to quiet my mind these past few weeks. I go to bed wondering if she’ll be there in the morning at her appointed hour. Will something be revealed? If so, will I be able to understand?
Stella sleeps. She seems, as most children do, to live in happy balance with her muse. It’s a part of her. I lived like that once as a child. It seemed so natural. Like breathing.
So.
I invite her into my life once more. I will embrace her like a lover. I will be vulnerable and open. I will feel and be touched. I’ll bare my soul and listen with my heart. I will wake with delight knowing she is there. I will have gratitude for her presence in my life at this moment. At this hour.
And.
I will despair when she leaves.
father at fifty 