The Tab I Left Open
The mirror is the same mirror. It just got bigger and faster, and the people angling it aren't elected and can't be voted out. I'm still here, paying attention, barefoot in the grass. That has to count for something.
The Tally
I count the minutes to bedtime. And then they sleep, and I walk past the door and peek in and stand there longer than makes sense, watching them breathe. This person I was desperate to hand off forty minutes ago I now feel the ache of missing someone who is right in front of me.
The Hatch
Why host the animal when you can license the sound? A feeder costs twelve dollars. The Hatch costs a hundred and sixty, comes in four colors, and is guaranteed not to poop on the ground around it.
The Third Morning
It was supposed to be a sunrise walk. Something gentle. Something restorative. Instead I was wheezing my way up what was, objectively, a very modest incline -- and the embarrassment was almost worse than the burning in my calves.
The Hour before Go
The mornings are mine for about an hour. I drink my coffee before anyone else is up, watching the sky move from dark to orange, to blue. This is the only hour of my day that has not been claimed.
Paper Cups
The hum isn't anger. It's clarity with nowhere comfortable to land. We can't stop the world from running its logic. But we can refuse to run it on the people in front of us.