So there I was, making lazy attempts to take notes from the depths of my new surroundings, when I noticed a shadow falling over the page. I can't write about this, I said to the Cat, whose bright smile failed to block the outline of a ghostly figure hovering behind me. It's too soon.
My words were met with rhythmic purring, a gentle nudge of his nose at my elbow. I tried again. And again, and again and again in the months that followed. Until finally I put my words away, tucked them under the heavy blanket where they paled into nothingness, forgotten.
Then one recent day as I passed the Rabbit Hole, I saw that it was somehow brighter-- as if a hidden window had been recently cleaned. Like a sleepy groundhog, I tiptoed inside and timidly opened my notebook. The page was nearly white--nothing more than a wisp of transparent fog where a dark shadow of guilt once camped on my writing desk.
Go ahead, said the Cat, who'd watched from the doorway.
I can't, said I.
Yes you can. You must. Words are your life.
What if he reads this?
If he truly loves you, he'll celebrate your return. Your life. You.
Who was I to argue with the Cat? His smile was a reflection of truth. Mine. Ours. I called to him, stroked his furry coat, and kissed his gray-whiskered cheek. He handed me the velvet bag and I reached into the depths of its neverending bounty. I drew five words, one at a time, and placed them face up on my rack.
Notes
From
The
Rabbit
Hole
It was a beginning.
I've learned it's really difficult to get back in the habit of blogging when you've let it slide for say, three months or so. Especially when you keep two of the buggers. 
