Telling: Streams & Logs


waking in pieces

Woke up meanly, little by little, like sand leaking from a slit in the bag. First listening, then thinking, and some time later the ability to move. The joy of it is missing still.

I followed the boys by sound. The quiet voices of a radio alarm left running. Water in the tub. Feet on stairs. The down and the up again and again down. The front door swings shut behind Tucker with a sound that is simultaneously solid and rattling. Something loose around the edges there. Countered by the rattle of little pellets of food into Thea's bowl. The tag-chime of her pleasure. Then, after a few minutes more, the front door closing again with a careful click as Jake goes out into the day. Then the house is still, and still my head held tight in the claw of something fierce and unyielding.

After a bit I rise up and swing my legs over the edge. It's not that I'm unhappy, or snagged on some worry. The foundation of yesterday's happiness remains. It's just that I am pressed against some smooth, unnamed inevitability, clean and cold and unyielding. Like sunlight. Or breathing. Even a good thing will bruise you if you press against it too hard.