Wodan's Child

There is a bit of magic in all of us. No matter how ordinary we seem, no matter how deep one has to dig, there is that child inside with eyes squinted to see fairies instead of fireflies, to hear voices on the wind, to smell lightening before it strikes.

My magic plays out in words. They fall out of my fingertips, I barely even look at the screen.

Often I cry as I write.

That's my magic. Hidden in a stack of letters and rounded silent lip movements. It's not passion patterned out in a spray of touches.

I've held my hand to a chest, and felt the crinklycrackly hair and sighed my contentment. Sometimes it is enough. Sometimes it isn't. And sometimes that child inside squints and sees Odin.

I haven't stopped squinting.

There are days and ways of normalcy. Amongst this I must find the magic.