"I don't see spirits. Don't feel them. I'm convinced they don't exist."
This is what I've just written with my late mother's pen on a fresh new writing pad. It's so exhilarating, thrilling, opening a new pad. The fresh clean paper, the smell, the sounds.
The sounds. The sounds the trees knew before machines came, before wood became paper. Wind. Birdsong. They're still there.
I look around. My mother smiles and people that I don't know but she does move around me.
I'm writing a drabble about someone who can never believe. Sometimes I wish that it's about me.