12/26/22
“Which of all my important nothings should I tell you first?”
Austen penned,
and I echo.
I’m in the Manchester airport waiting for a bus to London.
I’m drinking a double Americano,
and it’s 2 am at home.
My hands are cold because we’re sitting by the exit doors,
but I don’t mind.
Much important writing
is comprised of important nothings.
Tell me about your breakfast,
tell me about your grandmother and her smoking habit,
tell me about your crush on the neighborhood barista.
Spend five pages explaining the way the snow fell last night,
and I’ll sit enraptured
as you describe each flake and where it landed.
I’ve spent too long
applying pressure at every turn
to solve your despair with my pen.
To manage my anger with a sentence.
To deconstruct our angst with a perceptive paragraph.
I’d rather write about the way my mom smiled
when she hugged my brothers on Christmas Eve.
About the way my kitchen smelled
as I made brown butter chocolate chip cookies a few night ago
and the look on my friend’s face as she took a first bite.
I’d like to explore each important nothing
with the attention it deserves.
To sit enraptured with each flake and where it lands,
to spend five pages trying to explain the way it fell.
Which should I tell you first?
Lightly,
Leah
Leah Kepley, M.Ed. 