I Miss Primus

I miss them. 

I miss the pages of names with ages beside them, ledger books of data – all there is to know.

I miss the ciphering of mentions – “Phill carried me the order” – into stories.

I miss the way these tidbits slide into my mind like Belgian chocolate, soft, creamy, rare.

The breathe of life that slide against my nostrils even when it seemed like I would never know enough, never know them.

The rasp of rough cotton against my fingertips and the “shing, shing” ring of a scythe on the wheat.

The shadow of their backs against the soil and soul of my home.

I miss Aggy and Gruff, Lucy and Cato, but most of all I miss Primus.  I miss him like a grandfather I never met.  The jostle on his knee that never happened. A chance to follow his back on a trail through the woods never come.

I will always miss them – these people who gave me story.  And yet, they are here now, on pages and in me, wrapped around fibers and ribs. Forever.

This is why I write.  This is why I write about enslaved people.

This is my grounding. This is my song . . . to sing their stories until we all hear their voices bright and true.  With us.

It’s about time I got back to it, true.

Why do you write?

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Yesterday, I launched an online writing community to help us all connect to one another more.  Writers of all genres and experience levels are welcome to subscribe monthly and receive writing prompts and feedback from me. There’s also an option to join a writing group.  If you’re interested, please take a look and let me know if you have any questions.  Thanks.