the morning after.


Trying to remember the details of the last four weeks is like grasping at straws…blindfolded.

It has been 4 weeks of illness, travel, and drama.  4 weeks of failure.  4 weeks of exhaustion. 4 weeks of tears on all sides.  4 weeks of living shallow breath to shallow breath.  4 weeks of multiple cups of coffee by 9am.  4 weeks of tracing the perfect circle of the top of my coffee cup with my eyes while the chaos faded into the background for just that moment.  4 weeks of hearing a stranger’s voice, full of weariness and impatience, in my home, and now only realizing it was my own. 4 weeks of yelling-induced silence.  4 weeks of triage.  4 weeks of busy.  4 weeks of moving too fast.  4 weeks of losing ground.  4 weeks of grasping at anything to anchor me: a conversation with a friend, escaping the house, sewing a seam here and there, sitting on the porch whenever the sun came out, trying to be grateful that illness wasn’t severe and everyone is healthy again.  4 weeks of something.  4 weeks of stretching thin and stretching out.  4 weeks of curling into and around everyone to support and to comfort.

4 weeks of suppressing all the things I really wanted to say, to write, to shout so I could tend, mend, and bend.

Tending, mending, and bending. I’m ready to release my tendril of support as they can all reach for the sun on their own now.  

4 weeks later.


Finally writing again…using writealm.








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