untitled

I decided to pull up this old blog today and realized I've only posted a handful of times in the past several years. I have a few theories, one being that I only write when I'm sad or when it is an assignment. I noticed that I recently posted an old journal entry from when I was in college - too many years ago. I guess I felt that contributing anything at all would be progress.
I'm home today, keeping the fire on too long while I hold ice to my cheek which is so much like that of a chipmunk from the  gum grafting I had done yesterday.
There are several new inches of snow on the ground, which means my co-workers have a second partial day of work due to adverse weather. The roads are slick and dangerous and I feel lucky that I get to stay home.
I wonder if my lack of writing means that nothing of any consequence has occurred, but I know that isn't the case. I've lost more friends and family members, as well as gained more friends and family members. The fact that I didn't write about each one of them doesn't lessen their importance to me or their impact on my life.
The sun is shining now and ice is dripping off the roof, pooling on the sidewalk below. ready to freeze later, creating something dangerous. The cat is sleeping beside me on the couch as my eyes try to focus on the screen, willing myself to complete a thought, a sentence.
Some days I just feel pulled into writing, even when there is nothing important or pressing to write. I feel a need to leave things behind. Someday, someone will possibly read these things - and I'll be gone. I have no idea when that will be and I hope it is many years away. I have no reason to think otherwise, but I know it is out of my hands.
I'd like to feel prepared for that, but I don't. I realize that I am not the one who matters - it is the people I leave behind who I should be preparing. But people don't do that, not when they're healthy anyway.
I wish I had more to leave, more money, more wisdom, more memories.
I'll have to work on that.