- I’m so engrossed in compiling my application that I lose track of time. I spot the clock in my peripheral vision when I meander into the kitchen for a refill and yelp out loud, then dash upstairs to rouse the troops. I hope it’s a good omen.
- The words we speak are the house we live in.
- Stage one rockets, away.
- I add another oversized cloth bag to the stash–reminders of how she shows her love.
- Two out of three naps.
- By the time I emerge from her room, I’m thoroughly beaten. I shouldn’t be. I should be stronger, able to brush off her casual slander and lies. All I am tonight is sad.
- The smell of warm tires inside the house. I’m concerned but don’t know what to check for.
- It’s like six conversations at once, all different people, all different topics and volumes and cadences, all important, all time-sensitive.
- I want to drown it all in water hot enough to scald, to soak aching limbs and a battered soul until my vision swims and I can barely stagger to bed fast enough to catch myself swooning into sleep. But I won’t. Because there’s work to be done. Always more work.
- Her message comes at the perfect moment–a buoy as I start to slip under. She’s the master.
