I am 38, standing near my kitchen table on a Sunday morning, moisture still clinging to the windows near me. The sky seems to be a dusty lilac, if you don’t look too hard at it. I can smell the sweetness of my own hair, left to air-dry against pillows, now carelessly rumpled. I put on the same song I played before I fell asleep while I fix my coffee. I think about the right words to send to a plan I’d like to cancel in favor of this couch and this book. Until I remind myself that seeing the people I love is necessary for my soul, and haven’t I spent enough time with Gigi stretched against the length of my hip and knee? But oh, how perfect she is when she nuzzles deep into the blanket that protects us.
(Daily Writing 074)
Thoughts?