Blankets

This is the tired that can’t be cured with a brief nap or a cup of tea or a meditation session.

This is the tired that comes from children’s nightmares and midnight calls from hospitals and 4 am reflection. This is the tired that comes from being old enough to see people’s bad behaviors repeating and feeling winter in my fingers and my skin and my eyes. It comes from predictability and lack of matching rhythm.  It comes from semi-blind turns in the car where snow has blocked views of oncoming traffic. Piles of books to read and put away, crunches underfoot from mostly-enjoyed toddler cereal remnants.  Light snow making the air look dirty but the ground refreshed.  Ongoing, crushing responsibilities, desires to rejoin artistic communities kept ever-waiting.

Salt. Sugar. Actuary Tables. Meetings and expectations and wondering if I’ll be missed.

The wrong kinds of excitement. The right kind of rest in too-small doses.

The warmth of a hat urging me to stare out the window for long, delicious minutes.

Inviting whispers from empty pages.

Funerals and births and hospitals and gardens and stories to tell and stories to hear.

So many ands.

It’s a good place I’m in.

This is the tired that prioritizes.

I just want a brief hibernation. I don’t want to recharge. I don’t need to recharge. I just want to sort for a day.

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