There’s a children’s book that my father used to be writing.
He would read it to us when my brothers and I were younger.
The Story of Rory, Where the Trafalaggs Played.
It went something like this:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the land of Runtoogan,
by the sea of Suntoogan,
here’s the story of Rory, where the Trafalaggs play.
Rory was a Kanga with a one-legged hop…
.
But here’s the thing.
I don’t remember the rest.
And from what I understand, neither does my father.
My brother Noah and I used to take turns trying to rewrite this story.
Each time getting a little bit closer to what we thought was maybe the right ending.
Or perhaps, where the story was supposed to end?
We could never quite tell.
Though we tried.
Somewhere deep in Noah’s computer he has a few tries.
A few edits.
Somewhere in mine I have the same.
I couldn’t tell you why this story popped into my mind today,
And nothing more than just those first few lines.
But it reminded me of the freedom that writing had.
And gave me joy for continuing this blog, even when things are hard.
.
.
.
In the land of Runtoogan,
by the sea of Suntoogan,
here’s the story of quarantine,
so let’s all stay inside.
.
Micah Mabey
