Sometimes I want to write so bad it tears against the grain of my soul and I feverishly scribble whatever words I can find. Usually it has nothing to do with any of the current stories I'm working, but rather something new takes hold and I want to shape it into something I can show someone. I fight with my voice until my fingers hurt and my brain throbs. Who am I trying to impress? Who do I want to touch and make thme think of me after they have read it? Only one person who I have ever written like that before.

In the morning she twirls her hair around her finger absentmindly, her thoughts are as distant as the day of work ahead as she looks into the mirror. She closes her eyes and hopes the small wrinkles and the test of time disappear, she misses the face she had even five years ago. She dabbles on the make-up and hides the wisdom and pain the years have toiled against her and applies a smile as if she had painted it on herself. The kids scramble across the house looking for misplaced shoes, slips of homework and a bowl of cereal. The day is like any other day in her life and she expects nothing more or less, she is only here to exist for her children, because that is what a mom is supposed to do. The kids dash out the door towards the busstop and she has a few moments of peace before she must depart and make everyone believe how happy she is. A tear dangles on her eyelash, but she bats it away with the back of her hand and swallows a cup of tea.

Work drags on, the politics, the bastards, the bitches and the friends who make her laugh all play their role as if it were any other day. A couple of times throughout the day she hid herself in the bathroom and rested upon the chillled seat of the toliet. She laid her forehead along the side of the cool watertank hoping to avoid the effects of a fever she felt approaching. She gobbled up five or six Advil and steadied herself to her feet, because she knew by now someone would be looking for her because something was out of place and heaven forbid someone knew what to do with it. Her shift otherwise passed like a white chevy on the highway you never notice. A quick stop at the store, some things were mailed and she found her way home once again where her children were there to great her.

The evening drifted like a silent ship on a calm ocean. Supper and its aftermath only slowed the process of finding her way into a bath filled with lavender bubbles. The steam drifted to the ceiling as she closed her eyes and dozed to sleep for a few minutes. The sound of the doorbell rang and she bolted up in the tub, water sloshed over the floor and she hurried to grab a towel. Why hadn't she heard the dogs bark to warn her of someone coming, but now she heard them as clear as the voice outside the door. She staggered out of the water and wrapped her hair in a bun, but the man's voice exited the house as she heard the door slam shut.

"Mom. Look you got a bunch of pretty flowers."

Her oldest held an unique floral arrangement full of daisies and lillies with a smattering of babybreath intermixed. In the dead of winter they looked so beautiful. "Who are they from mom?"

"I don't know." She grabbed the card attached to a silver pitchfork. After she wiped her fingers on the moist towel, she opened the pink envelope and read, "I know it isn't Valentine's Day, but I thought of you. I'd really like to see you soon." This time her smile cracked her face without a brush in her hand. She stuck the card back into its home and put the flowers in her bedroom on her dresser. It had been many months since it had last been filled, then she sat on the bed and read the card again.

A couple of small faces peeked around the corner, but she didn't notice. "Mom?" Her eyes flickered over to them. "Who are they from?"

"A friend."

"He must be a special friend to make you look so happy."

"He is. Now go on and finish your homework. I need to finish my bath."