When Writing Isn't Going Well-then The Bad

I Like Playing Around With The Words; I Love It When I Feel Like I've Picked The Exact Right Word To Describe Whatever It Is I'm Trying To Describe

I Wish, Peevishly, That He Didn't Know Anything About How Soldiers Sleep, How They Protect Their Fellow Soldiers. It Would Be Nicer If I Could Share The Cloaks Warmth With Him, If We Could Lie With Our Faces Together, Whispering Into The Night.

That Porch Is A Happy-looking Place, And My Father - Burdened, Stoop-shouldered, Cadaverously Thin - Doesn't Seem To Belong On It.

Unlike My Mother, My Father Does Not Cry Quietly. His Wails Roll Out Like A Wave Of Pain, And I Scramble To Roll Up My Window. My Mother Cannot Hear That. I Cannot Bear To Hear It Myself. I Am Not Used To My Father's Crying. I've Had No Time To Harden My Heart Against Him.

Amazing, Yetta Thought. Back Home I Couldn't Have Chosen My Own Husband. And Here I'm Thinking About Choosing Presidents, Governors, Mayors, Laws.