So many things to write, so little time

It’s after midnight and I am back up out of bed after trying to go to sleep and failing. I often come to this point late at night, the point where I lie in bed, thinking of all the stories I have to tell, but overwhelmed by how in the world I can tell them all in the years I have left. I am 51, that’s not old, and with God’s grace, I will live to be an old woman, but where do I begin? Can I say everything I want to say in poetic form? I’m not sure. I keep coming back to the thought that I want to tell the story of my son. He committed suicide last April at the age of 30. I can’t do that in a poem. And then the idea comes to me that maybe I should write a non fiction book, a book to help other parents who have lost children to suicide.

Then I think of how hard it would be, and not just the emotional part, but making sure it got published, that the work I put into it would reach those who need to read it, those who it might do some good. And behind this thought comes the fear that I will taint the memory of my son. Would he want me to tell his story?  I wonder. I wonder all the time about all kinds of stuff, about human nature and life. I spend a lot of time thinking about the past. I never thought I’d be the kind of person who lived there, and it’s not as if I DO live there, but sometimes the past feels much more preferable to the present under the circumstances.  But I ramble.