There was always a pile of books
next to her bed.
The books that she would start
but never finish.
She had some novels that she liked pretty well,
and a few classics that she couldn’t understand,
and a Bible
that she would occasionally open
when she felt brave.

For a while
she kept a journal
on the top of the pile
so she could write about
whatever people write about
in journals.
But she had nothing to write about,
so she threw it away.

And then for another while
she kept a sketchbook
on the top of the pile
so she could illustrate her life,
or so she had heard.
And she was actually pretty good.
But then she lost her favorite
blue colored pencil
and so she threw the sketchbook away.

After that she lay in bed at night
before she was tired enough for sleep,
hoping it would rain
or maybe even storm
because she had heard
that that sort of thing
inspired people.
But it was always quiet,
until she fell asleep.
And then it would pour.

So instead she lay in bed
and thought about the books
in the pile next to her.
She thought about their beginnings
because that was as far
as she ever got.
But sometimes as she lay there
waiting for the sleep
that took so long to come,
she wondered about their endings.
And then it poured.