This day isn’t ready to let me sleep, although it ran away to yesterday 1 hour and 3 minutes ago. The new day took up the baton of now-yesterday to keep me, head locked, in wakefulness.

I lie in bed listening to the soft snoring of my love, reaching under the covers with my cold foot to feel the soft skin on the top of his warm foot. He stirs and begins snoring a new rhythm.

I get up and scavenge the kitchen, finding a bag of sweet popcorn. I gobble it as I read with half attention a passage from The Writing Life, not fully understanding the meaning but turning the page anyway. I tilt the bag to dump the remnant of popcorn crumbs into my mouth, but I end up dumping most of it on my shirt. I brush it onto the floor. I’ll sweep it up when the sun is out.

I return to my bed, stripping off my t-shirt, as maybe I am just too warm. I lie there and think a thousand random thoughts, every five or so interrupted by my attempt to bring myself back to my breath. I get up to snort a few puffs of nasal spray. I am congested yet again.

I check on my daughter while I’m up and stand above her bed watching her little belly expand and contract. Her pacifier is dangling from the corner of her mouth. I love her so much. I have to tear myself away from standing there, gazing at her little button nose  in the pink night-light light.

I return to my bed once again, and I lie here still, thinking of Trump and hatred and love and wanting to understand it all. I resolve that I will tell my daughter that stupidity, ignorance and darkness will always be with us. It is part of life, and loving one’s own life and one another is the antidote to feeling sad about what we can’t change. And then maybe it does change things, after all.

I look up vegan recipes on Pinterest, then digress to fashion and become exasperated by the lack of photos of women older than 25. I search for fashion in middle age and just get fashion from the Middle Ages. I try growing old gracefully and hit the jack pot. I see older women – so beautiful and so their age – and I am reminded that it’s my choice to be sad about turning 40. I think about the fact that I once read that some Native American cultures see women as increasingly beautiful as they age, because wisdom is beautiful.

The city that was just a few short hours ago so loud around me, has gone to sleep. Am I the only one awake?

One comment

  1. Why’d you stop writing?

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