A text message from a girlfriend this weekend: I’m so heavy today. I didn’t sleep. All I could think about were the people being turned away. — I imagine you’re heavy today, too. I imagine you’re doing your best to decipher the news. I imagine you’re doing your best to put on a happy face
A journal entry from last month: I’ve felt oh so brain-dead lately. There will be bouts of lucidness, sure, but mostly, I’m over here puttering around the sink, taking out the trash, avoiding cooking, thinking of 500 more ways I can justify breakfast-for-dinner again. What is it? I’m not sure. It’s just a little cloudy
Things feel disjointed, that’s all. I walk the dogs. I order coffee black. I grocery shop. I answer texts. I chop carrots, find the missing shoe. I order finger paints. I fall asleep. Writer/mother/wife. I wake. — Bee likes to sleep on the floor. On the (rare) days in which she naps, I’ll have laid
I am easily overwhelmed. It takes only a perfect trickling of events for me to retreat to the shower for deep breaths and some rosemary shampoo, which is where Ken found me a few days ago – heavy eyes and sudsy hair. It was Saturday morning, and our little trio was home – in the