what do you?

What do you write after writing nothing for nearly two weeks? What words ought to come after no words?

What do you write on a home-alone evening, when you’re watching a red tornado box slide across the online radar screen in counties just north and east of you?

Do you write how your phone auto-corrects “since” to “Pgmad,” because that makes sense?

Do you write how you can hear the rain falling from the near eaves and frogs singing in the distant woods?

Do you write how those woods have succumbed to deep green at last — or is it at soon? — in tunnels of lacy shade that surround the pond into which those singing frogs launch by the dozens when you pass?

Do you write of how a student wrote that something is “highly impossible” and then wonder about degrees of impossibility? Don’t those become degrees of probability, with “impossible,” sans modifiers, standing as the least probable of all?



All things that exist on the far side of impossible exist on an equal plane regarding probability. Which means, I suppose, that there are fewer things in that level space than we tend to say there are, with the number constantly shrinking as things designated undoable are done.

Do you write of the faces: the girl’s face framed in a silver-headscarf, the boy’s face under an NRA cap, the so-many-others? The way that they can soften, brighten with encouraging words?

You might have called this highly impossible, several years back, impatient for a glimpse of the yet-to-be, yet here it is: the so-many-faces and you not afraid, your heart-roots spreading wide in this Mississippi soil over which the tornado boxes — severe storms, now — slide with almost-weekly reliability, you learning to find the words that come after no words, the stories that begin where “probable” stops.

He corrects the things you type, the things you plan to live, and sometimes the corrections seem as rational as “Pgmad,” but He is not a mindless auto-corrector, and though your understanding may be deficient, His plans for you — highly impossible — are certain and good.

Write this, you who wonder: He is good.


©2014 by Stacy Nott

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