4

My husband is a writer.

He shakes his head no, and says not lately.

I just get up, work, come home, play with the kids, and sleep.

I haven't written for months.

But there's writing, and then there's

Inking love into the schedule and skin with

The tireless unglamorous shift

After shift.

There's writing, and then there's

Getting through the brain-blank fog bank

Making mistakes and (FILL IN LATER)s

And coffee and coffee and one more cup of coffee.

There's writing, and there's

Family jokes and recipe-book food splatters;

Toddlers, gaggingly real and unbearably precious;

Dog-eared moments, underlined and pressed into skin.

Crafted with every shift, the turn of every key,

Printed every day without a backspace or edit.

My husband is a writer.