Talking is easier than writing. You can supplement your words with gestures.

You can nuance them with volume and inflection.

Blogging is easy, too, because you can illustrate with photographs.

But real writing requires the right words.

Only the black ink on a white page.

These words must be the right words.  The naked truth.  No slant.  No spin.

These words must be a light piercing through someone’s darkness.

A mother’s darkness.

I started a book as a journal for me.  Tears and fears were hidden from view, veiled with smiles.

There were things I could not say, or would not say and should not say.  I wrote them down instead.

Then the book morphed into a memoir for my child.  She needed to know this story someday, when she was ready.

Now, it is for another mother.  Somewhere out there feeling afraid, alone, cursed and damned

She needs to know that these moments of terror will end.

A breath will be taken by them both.

They will get up like it is the first morning of the first day, again.

With every fall, there will be a rising.

I must let her know this.

She needs my black and white hugs, pats, smiles, tears, hope, faith, strength and even laughs.

I need the write words.

Mama Flower