In my mental chorus of Why Can’t I’s (YOU HAVE THIS TOO, RIGHT?) — like sure I can write but Why Can’t I also Ski or Paint or Sing or Clog or Knit I always for some reason focus on the Fiddle. In a world in which a human can be blessed with talent or perhaps not but can force themselves to practice and master a thing, WHY CAN’T I ALSO PLAY THE FIDDLE?! JUST THAT? I would drop my pen. Pick up my fiddle, fiddle out some mountain song my great grandma used to sing to her dog while peeling vegetables.  I go back in time. I find myself sitting sideways on the dirt colored chair, writing furiously about Stacey’s outfit at this weeks meeting, describing her socks, the way in which they were pushed down, revealing ankles, missed patches of hair. I smack the journal from my own hands. I hand myself a fiddle. Myself says, Uh, I don’t know how to play this. I say to myself, OH, BUT YOU WILL.

YOU WILL.