Maybe

The annual Read Aloud was held last night at our library. Less than thirty of us squeezed side by side in rows of chairs lined up in front of the speaker’s podium. One by one, designated readers stood in front to read, either from a book or from originally written pieces. I enjoy the poetry most. Whether from a local rancher, who includes images of earth, sage and sky; or from the former Broadway playwright, who reads in his sing-song, hammered, city beat, the message is direct. . . .blunt. The school superintendent and two other writers from the faraway towns of Fossil and Condon, read brief poems that reflect warmth and humor. Poetry demands an immediate response. My Aries heart loves it!

A couple years ago, I shared some of my Memoirs in that podium, which pretty much froze me in place from that moment on, as far as writing any further. Though the audience applauded, I’ve since stopped sharing and ceased taking my writing seriously. Don’t know why, but I’ve cut myself dead at the starting gate. Blocked the nun who seems always to want to tell her story. The nun still haunts me. Begs to break her silence. “Maybe someday”, I whisper. Aloud, I tell anyone who asks that I won’t. After last night, I again say. . .“Maybe”.