Pretty with a Bow

When a writer uses a certain turn of phrase or coalesces pieces of thought and experience into intoxication, am I devastated by the being or by the craft? I melt away under the text – paralyzed by the paradox of feeling pliable yet alive in a new and different way. If I saw you on the street or bumped into you in the market, your arms loaded with sacks of food for your family, would I give my Michigan “ope! Sorry!” and touch you arm on my way around, and think: whoa, holiness abounds? Instead, winter's celibacy. My own words. My own craft.

Black coffee, a bitter night in my mouth. I become accustom to the restlessness that agitates before spring. Nights are chopped up with fidgety legs and vivid thoughts. Owls and other noises ask for a part in the drama. 2 a.m. and then 3. The body resists a logical need for sleep and restoration. I resist the resistance. Magnesium, calming oils, a droll podcast. The Sun magazine. Nisargadatta. White embroidery on the navy quilt. Plans to add perennials with more color. No rest for the wicked, they say. I'm okay with that. 

With dawn, the end of choices –

{Ginger tea, yoga bra and shorts, wake the kids. Supplements, pack lunch, and stretch the back, hamstrings and hips for 30 minutes. Hug and kiss the kids goodbye, eat breakfast, brush my teeth, and put on work clothes. Pull back my hair, load up the car, pour more tea, wave to Kyle at the bottom of the stairs.}

And then, drive to work.

I stack the days like cards and voice my displeasure when the dealer gets out of hand. The manuscript sits, crying out: S.O.S. I'll wrap it up, pretty with a bow. But if you could have a hand in it, would you want to?

Instead, wine and Wheezer by myself.

The end isn't the end, ya know?