This is the first of what I hope will be a daily writing exercise—a stretching if you will—of my narrative and creative muscles; a companion to the physical awakening of my body. At some point, I know that I owe myself and my readers an explanation of my long absence from the blogging world, but for now I just want to get back in the groove.
He had been gone only a week, but in those seven days the landscape of his world was transformed. The forces that delivered the change were elemental, a slow collision of his life’s continental plates that had built tension over a long stretch of time before an inevitable touch of mortality triggered the earthquake.
It was the angle of the morning sun through the kitchen window … beams that lit dancing motes of dust also revealed a year that, in just seven days, had advanced a long step toward spring. Before he’d left on what was to have been the scholarly pursuit of literary enlightenment, those bright rays had glanced through the window from the southeast. But his world had shifted—realigned—and the sun’s new angle pushed his thoughts into consideration of the changes his father’s death had wrought. That glaring sense of change chased the numbness from his mind and made him aware of the emotional rubble strewn about like so much broken concrete from a ruptured highway; a highway that now led … where?
But the truth was, much of the rubble had been there all along. And he hadn’t been sure where the highway had been leading in the first place. As the sun climbed higher and the day tried to claim a sense of the normal, he knew that the weeks and months ahead would require some heavy lifting if he wished to clear the road. The relief he felt at finally having begun the work was strong; stronger even than his guilt for having left it undone until it would do his father no earthly good.