I walk around the basement, its luxury vinyl tiles looking like grey slate, it feels smooth to my slippered feet. I walk until it becomes like breathing, natural and the state of being. A phone is glued to my ear. A new friend talks about embarking on her journey as a writer.
I feel envious of all the newness it encompasses. I am envious of the hope, the promise of possibilities that accompany the beginning. We talk about many things but come back to talk about my journey as a writer.
My voice flows, strident with authority. For a brief moment in time, I am not sure who this woman is, walking in circles in her basement. The sounds of her other life trickle down. Laughters, squabbles, exhaust fan and pleas for quiet. The smells of the roasting cauliflower, the cumin and curry leaves trail her as she walks.
She speaks about how she started, where she is, how far she has come. She is free with her knowledge, doling out names of resources and nuggets she has gleaned from being on a similar path not too long ago.
Mostly, it is the confidence and authority she is projecting that is alien. The writer and the mother, both shadows, one longer than the other in relation to where the light is coming from.
PS: This piece is something I wrote in response to a prompt.