the story

The pieces of the story are written in fragments in several places.  The major paragraphs are scrawled in my composition notebook, the black and white one I take to writing sessions at the café.  There are a few great introductory sentences, out of order, on a page in my journal.  I'm afraid the pivotal transition is temporarily misplaced on the floor of the car – I'd written those lines on the back of a field trip permission slip, the only paper I could locate as soccer practice was about to finish.

The real problem with finishing the story, however, is not locating the various pieces and arranging them into a cohesive and readable format.  The true reason I'm not finished writing the story, is that the final lines are caught in the back of my throat.  Directly in the back where I feel the tears before they have actually formed in my eyes.  Back where if I close my eyes, breath consciously, and swallow in a soothing way I can keep, for now, the tears from falling from my eyes, down my cheeks and on to my chest making spots on my clean dress, which also keeps the ending of the story unspoken.

I know you understand that sometimes the story is not stuck in my head or in my fingertips poised on the keyboard but actually stuck in the back of my throat.

Soon, I'll find the paper in the car, round up the words from the composition book and journal, fit together the pieces so they tumble along with ease and eventually my voice will free the final lines so the story will be complete.