My house is a mess.
The toys are strewn across the floors and I can’t find it in me to pick them up one.more.time, unless of course it’s into that mythical blue garbage bag of “outside for the other kids”. There’s coats and spoons and cats on the couch, magazines and books, pencils and cd’s and I know nothing is where it belongs by the corralling of these things, the hemming in, it feels impossible, unwieldy, like a broadsword strapped to my back I haven’t the energy to heft. It weighs on me, like a puff of smoke and the universe, all together, singing hymns.
It’s the same in conversation, animated, enjoyable, real conversation with people who I enjoy, with brains that engage me in ways I so rarely find, who challenge my words in a good way, make me think. But I find myself staring bemused into the distance, barely able to marshall my brain around to focus, to sit in this moment and be with these women, enjoy the giggling serious talk I’ve been craving for so long. I stare at my hands and wonder why it’s so hard to stay in this place, with these voices. I drift, that puff of smoke sitting on my head, wiser than I yet not, tamping me down like tobacco.
It’s like I’m not even here, floating around like a whisper. I hear the voices of my children but they’re dim, I hear the mutterings of responsibility but dash them off with a flick of my hand, determined to slip past it. The pressures of being alone, weighty, hug tight to my scorned back, slow me. My pennant in this race is black and red with ire.