Sunday may have been my personal proverbial five minutes of fame . It was wonderful. It was exhilarating. It was nerve-wracking. It was addicting. And now it is over. I feel incomplete. Like something is missing. Empty. I am Empty. This troubles me, so I muse. I analyze. I dig around, within myself, to find a root. To extract it. Completely. Like a weed, so that it will not spread. So that it will not choke-out the good that I have planted. Nurtured, painstakingly, until I saw the first blooms. My garden is fragile. Temperamental. I must always keep a steady eye and ready hand upon the first shoots of a weed. So I dig. I think back upon this experience. It began a little over three months ago. February 9 th , to be exact. The moment I read the non-conspicuous call for local writers to audition for a reading of their personal story on motherhood. I wasn’t expecting the invitation, which made it even more delightful; spontaneous.
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