On Thursday mornings I attend a creative writing class at the library.
The tables are filled with stories; not on paper, but in the hearts and pasts of each person seated at them. Some read their work and some take notes and some tell tales that make the rest of us hoot out loud (HOL).
Like everything else, I'm a writing class slacker, begging Matt to take the children to school so I can fulfill my obligation the morning of. I don't know why I put it off so long, for when I sit there with a half hour to go, looking out our window as golden leaves give up and lower themselves to the green, my hands can't type fast enough and I feel set free.
My words go unread, as of yet, but it doesn't really matter. I arrive and leave with a smile on my face. I hear their words and - at least today - cry at the sound of them. Crazy American girl, they must be thinking, in the kindest of all ways. And we depart together with stories on our lips.