Ode to Wild Rumpus

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Dearest Maurice,


I found my empty clothing basket underneath the stair.
I do not know who put it there or why, but instead of worrying about the details, I climbed inside. 


And I cried. 


I wept because I have lost something precious, but I can't remember what it was or where to find it.


I wept because the wild places are like echoing chambers.


I wailed then, after all of the years of wondering where one goes to really, truly wail.


After a short long while, the tears ceased flowing the way tired tears do. The space in the basket grew cramped and crying is weary-making anyhow. I heard the sound of a steady pitter-patter and wondered about that. 


Perhaps an afternoon shower? Or the house cat on the step that creaks? Maybe the neighbor boy playing rat-a-tat in the basement next door?


The sound grew louder and the beat swirled inside my head. Thoughts, like things, lassoed and tied. 


Rhythm, crisp as a cymbal, steady as a tabla, and wide as my heart. 


I began to keep time with a toe, first. The whole foot joined in. Suddenly both feet found the beat and just like that, a rippling rise erupted. 


I rose because I have lost something precious and I can't remember what it was or where to find it.

I rose because the wild places are like echoing chambers.

I rose then, after all of the years of wondering where one might go to really, truly rise.

Maurice, I just wanted you to know.


Copyright 2012. Original writing by Jenny Baxley Lee.