A few days ago, the library branch I use notified me that my card needed renewing. An annual ritual marked each spring that arrives with Live Oak pollen, Mountain Laurel blooms, and dancing dandelions. I left the message with its bold RED number in my emails, knowing it would nag me relentlessly until I checked this task off my list.
Entering the library, I sniffed the scent of books like a hound hungry for meat. For some unacknowledged reason, I’d pulled away from reading over the past few months. Fingers trailing along titles, I realized I’d never finished the final book of a trilogy. My usual goal of reading a favorite author, a new-to-me writer, and a non-fiction piece had died with our frozen winter months. The time of year that usually binds me inside with a book in hand had escaped without a single volume sitting on my bedside.
Driving home, I thought about how WORDS, my solace and haven, have slipped into thick and silent shadows.
People frequently ask, “How are you doing?”
“Fine. I’m fine. How about you?” I reply politely. My thoughts scripted by what I think they want to hear.
However, I’m not fine.
WORDS have left me.
MY WORDS.
OTHERS’ WORDS.
My sadness, so subtle that I didn’t notice its presence, silences my day.
Copyright 2026 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
I'm definitly feeling like IOUNIO's "Lost and Found".
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