This morning I read blog entry after entry written by my husband’s cousin, laughing at the imagery of her younger son, Baloo, describing the how-to for playing Jonah and Big Fish, a game his father had made up and crying when her oldest son, Custard, so easily waved goodbye with a smile to the kid who had told him he wasn’t his friend, the day after he had felt crushed yet prayed forgiveness for him. Her blog made me love words in a way most blogs don’t. It’s not information or rantings but her very own language she’s created.
For the past few months, I’ve been wanting to start a blog that I will commit to. I feel like it would motivate me to write better. And I guess the reason why I’ve been procrastinating this is because I’ve been out of practice since those days I would write out sentences in my head during walks to the bakery and record my entire life in a sketchbook jammed with scribbles, drawings, and collages. So, here it goes. Ten plus years later as a mama with a pot belly. Thanks Mount Custard for giving me the push that I needed . . .