Minds spinning uncontrollably
flipping our phones, making calls
following our social networks
showing concern and support
without a moment to breathe
from the shock of it all.
He was relaxed and content with his life, laying in his bed.
The boy had moved onto a new job, a new life.
The girl moved on as well, with new jobs and her new love
and her dedication to building the grandest gem in her town.
They became amicable, she even performed in a play he wrote.
To which she did not get the praise she deserved.
She was his favorite. They were friends again.
Even in a dark hour of the past year, she was there for him.
He could always trust her. Even if he broke it.
But this afternoon was different. It was cold outside
but his body was warm
after a nap. Isn't it funny that our bodies always
seem brilliantly warm after a nap.
Like furnaces, fueled by our dreams.
And he flipped open his laptop and saw a status update
he refused to believe.
"Caved in," was the way it was described.
Then crumbled to the ground.
Then collapsed.
"She must be terrified and sick, all that hard work..."
he thought.
So he called his newsroom, he was a reporter now,
and asked if he could be of any assistance
despite that this all happened on his day off.
They agreed and asked him to reach out to her.
He searched his list of contacts before
clicking on her name.
He hesitated, "what do I say?
" he worried.
So as she had taught him,
he got a notebook and
scribbled out his thoughts
and his questions for her and left plenty of space
so she could share the page with him.
Would she even pick up the phone in a time like this?
Of course she did.
She always did, no matter what.
They chatted briefly. He got his material.
And he was determined to help using
what she taught him.
Help the only way he knew how.
By writing.
It was news this time. But writing is writing.
And when the story was filed, he noticed
an advance editorial for the
following day's paper sitting on his desk.
The editor wanted to make sure it was OK with him.
It was generic, told the fact, told the story,
told us everything we knew.
The boy almost crumpled up the editorial and cried
before he read the last few words.
And for the first time in writing for her,
he was bewildered that
he hadn't
thought
of it
himself.
(But I can't say what it said
until it's published tomorrow morning...hehe ;)
I wonder if you even still read this.
Not that I think you should.
You're in the middle of a
psychotic tornado.
I don't expect it.
But the event led me back
to our sunny shores
and all of it started rushing back in.
All my fears that I'd forgotten it have vanished.
Just when it looks like their world collapsed,
you woke them from their sleep.
Never stop writing. Please.
You're brilliant.
