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The Secret Hours
By Stephanie Kemp
The Secret Hours
By Stephanie Kemp
7am
Dammit.
I knew I should’ve started writing at 5.
When it was still dark.
When no one was awake.
When my thoughts were still clear from 8 hours of no talking or reading or hearing other people’s words.
I have always felt like I need the secret hours of a day to help get me through the public ones.
The quiet, the fresh air, the anything is possible, the what ifs, the clarity.
Only my thoughts, only my movements.
The Shoulds don’t know how to find me until someone else wakes up.
Space is still visible in the dark.
Possibility extends a hurried hand.
I have never needed the secret hours more.
It has been a year since the pandemic started.
A year since my mom died.
A year since schools closed.
A year of so much loss, tumult, rage, grief.
Fear.
Americans hate each other. They are literally split down the middle.
Furious. Violent. Plotting.
What kind of world will come up out of this?
What kind of world will my kids have?
I feel all of it in my bones and my bones are tired.
My head is full.
My heart is broken.
I had a dream about going home to Michigan this summer.
I am dreading going to Michigan.
This has never happened in the 35 years since I left it.
Seeing it through reality, not nostalgia.
Seeing it without a place to land.
Not just because of the state of the world, the country, the state of the state.
But the state of no mom.
No cabin.
No faith in people. (Is this true? Did I lose this when I lost her?)
My daughters can’t wait.
They only have the nostalgia part.
They only want to see their cousins.
Swim in a pool.
Eat Bruegger’s bagels.
Be somewhere.
Look forward to something.
Live.
I can’t get my brain around any of these things, so I will borrow from their optimism.
At least until I am able to re-find my footing and choose a different lens during the secret hours.
I will try again tomorrow.
Dammit.
I knew I should’ve started writing at 5.
When it was still dark.
When no one was awake.
When my thoughts were still clear from 8 hours of no talking or reading or hearing other people’s words.
I have always felt like I need the secret hours of a day to help get me through the public ones.
The quiet, the fresh air, the anything is possible, the what ifs, the clarity.
Only my thoughts, only my movements.
The Shoulds don’t know how to find me until someone else wakes up.
Space is still visible in the dark.
Possibility extends a hurried hand.
I have never needed the secret hours more.
It has been a year since the pandemic started.
A year since my mom died.
A year since schools closed.
A year of so much loss, tumult, rage, grief.
Fear.
Americans hate each other. They are literally split down the middle.
Furious. Violent. Plotting.
What kind of world will come up out of this?
What kind of world will my kids have?
I feel all of it in my bones and my bones are tired.
My head is full.
My heart is broken.
I had a dream about going home to Michigan this summer.
I am dreading going to Michigan.
This has never happened in the 35 years since I left it.
Seeing it through reality, not nostalgia.
Seeing it without a place to land.
Not just because of the state of the world, the country, the state of the state.
But the state of no mom.
No cabin.
No faith in people. (Is this true? Did I lose this when I lost her?)
My daughters can’t wait.
They only have the nostalgia part.
They only want to see their cousins.
Swim in a pool.
Eat Bruegger’s bagels.
Be somewhere.
Look forward to something.
Live.
I can’t get my brain around any of these things, so I will borrow from their optimism.
At least until I am able to re-find my footing and choose a different lens during the secret hours.
I will try again tomorrow.