o know what they were getting into. But I also write important things to tell him; things the boys have done, or the dog, or even the rat. And I'm also writing again. Not the "get it published in a magazine" kind of writing, but a "cleanse your hearYour heart is breaking. Love has left your life, or someone you love has become ill or died. How can you possibly think about writing at a time like that?

Not long ago, I felt the same way. I sat in my van in an airport parking lot watching the planes take off; knowing inside one of those huge metal machines was the man I loved. He wasn't leaving for a quick trip or even a week long trip. No, he was leaving for a six weeks to a country thousands of miles away from his home, his children and me.

My heart sank as I started the van and pulled out of the parking lot. It's not like we haven't already dealt with this before. He's been on this assignment for awhile now, gone for six weeks, back for one. Regular as clockwork. It's enough to drive a sane person mad. Or drive a writer to write a sad story or poem, or two, or ten.

I write in my journal nearly every day now. Mostly I say how much I miss him and how angry I am our lives are being ruled by a company's inability to know what they were getting into. But I also write important things to tell him; things the boys have done, or the dog, or even the rat. And I'm also writing again. Not the "get it published in a magazine" kind of writing, but a "cleanse your heart

e planes take off; knowing inside one of those huge metal machines was the man I loved. He wasn't leaving for a quick trip or even a week long trip. No, he was leaving for a six weeks to a country thousands of miles away from his home, his children and me.

My heart sank as I started the van and pulled out of the parking lot. It's not like we haven't already dealt with this before. He's been on this assignment for awhile now, gone for six weeks, back for one. Regular as clockwork. It's enough to drive a sane person mad. Or drive a writer to write a sad story or poem, or two, or ten.

I write in my journal nearly every day now. Mostly I say how much I miss him and how angry I am our lives are being ruled by a company's inability to know what they were getting into. But I also write important things to tell him; things the boys have done, or the dog, or even the rat. And I'm also writing again. Not the "get it published in a magazine" kind of writing, but a "cleanse your hear

nd me.

My heart sank as I started the van and pulled out of the parking lot. It's not like we haven't already dealt with this before. He's been on this assignment for awhile now, gone for six weeks, back for one. Regular as clockwork. It's enough to drive a sane person mad. Or drive a writer to write a sad story or poem, or two, or ten.

I write in my journal nearly every day now. Mostly I say how much I miss him and how angry I am our lives are being ruled by a company's inability to know what they were getting into. But I also write important things to tell him; things the boys have done, or the dog, or even the rat. And I'm also writing again. Not the "get it published in a magazine" kind of writing, but a "cleanse your hear

ugh to drive a sane person mad. Or drive a writer to write a sad story or poem, or two, or ten.

I write in my journal nearly every day now. Mostly I say how much I miss him and how angry I am our lives are being ruled by a company's inability to know what they were getting into. But I also write important things to tell him; things the boys have done, or the dog, or even the rat. And I'm also writing again. Not the "get it published in a magazine" kind of writing, but a "cleanse your hear

o know what they were getting into. But I also write important things to tell him; things the boys have done, or the dog, or even the rat. And I'm also writing again. Not the "get it published in a magazine" kind of writing, but a "cleanse your heart of pain" kind.

When my hubby first left back in May, he called me from Heathrow Airport to let me know his flight was delayed. He didn't want me to worry about him. The connection we had was awful. I could barely hear him and he could barely hear me. That call spawned a long angry entry aimed at the phone company in my journal, and this poem. Not my best work, but it was what came out at the time...

Ma Bell Lied

For years she's been telling me
to reach out and touch someone

It's almost like being there,
if only you'll pick up the phone.

But the whine of long-distance
phone lines is deafening.

The sadness and loss of distance
cannot be quieted

For years she's been lying
to you and to me.

As I said, not my best work. But it did ease the anger I felt towards the phone company and the connection we had. And it made me smile, which helped as well.

Writing heals a broken he