Go.

Travel. See the world, again. London, Paris, Venice…the places of your youth. The places where you wrote, will write again. Is it so strange that America is a perpetual writer’s block? No. It happens to everyone, at some point; feeling so stifled that fleeing the country is the only option worth pursuing. The easiest; the most difficult thing to fathom.

            Why is it so difficult? You’re OLD, for Krishna’s sake. Hardly the traveling age. Oh, for fuck’s sake. How has it been this long? A daughter (whose father you still cannot remember…those years are clouded in pot smoke and…well…mmm…); she’s had a daughter (by a husband, gray-haired at their meeting…she buried him before burying her own mother)…

            The only thing you’ve ever known is writing, deary. Put your big-girl britches on, stand up, and leave the goddamned house. Shoes are optional…no, they do shoe checks now.

            Hurry, pack, whip out your battered brown suitcase (plastered in stickers from places you swore you’d never gone…)

            “Sadie?”

            It’s the boy (man), the one you forgot about…forget about, to be more accurate.

            “Matt, come to Paris,” you say, out of breath, shoving skirts and blouses into your over-stuffed suitcase. “Tell Vi. Pack your things.”

            There she is. Violet Elizabeth, pride and joy, granddaughterly love of your life.

            “Vi! We’re off.”

            “Gram, now, you know that’s impossible. Mom told you no. I told you no. You can hardly stand, Gram!”

            Shit. So much for love of your life….more like bane of your existence.

            No matter. Sneak out the back. Don’t forget the check book.

           

            “GRAM! Do not leave this house until Mom gets back!”

            Shit, shit, fucking shit. Where did this protectiveness, this motherly power trip come from? Certainly not from you…

Oy. Can’t write in this godforsaken country. Never going to write again.

            “Vi? Violet, it’s those dirty conservative rat bastards, those greedy, hypocritical sons of bitches.”

            “What is, Gram?”

            “Vi!” You’re whining. Like you’re three. Whine away. “Vi-i! I don’t want to stay here with them anymore! I can’t write, I can’t DO anything, for fuck’s sake!”

            “And, what, you’re blaming the majority party?”

            She’s always been so level-headed. That didn’t come from you, either…

            “YEEEEESSSS! THEY’RE WARMONGERS, OIL GRUBBERS, STEALING MY MONEY TO BUY THEIR ISLANDS IN THE CARIBBEAN! I DIDN’T VOTE FOR HIM, HE IS NOT MY PRESIDENT!”

            Another vote wasted, that was.

            “Gram. Gram. It is not their fault. Ever think about the fact that your arthritis has taken over your hands? You don’t have writer’s block…you cannot physically hold a pen.” She walks back in to the room, holding her blue ballpoint. Like she’s trying to make a point.

            “Yes, please, rub THAT in my face.”

            “OH!” she exhales, dropping the pen. “Gram, I’m sorry. I didn’t even realize it was there.”

            Oh, what you wouldn’t give to forget you’re holding a pen. To not even be able to feel it. She’s so young…so lucky…