It is ten past nine before I unfurl properly to write, the trees outside glowing in cold sun, a mid-grey sky darker and promising—ah, there, it rains. Sleep last night brought strange dreams, in part because we had watched a documentary in the evening about the US-Mexico border, about the pains and stories and confusion and lives that collect there. In dreams, a large family is trying to flee a faceless terror, stepping softly through trees and promises to spend night after night shaking in the clutch of a dense green forest. Waking before the alarm, set at 5:33am, for you but not for me, although an anxiousness about not hearing it meant a restless sleep for us both, I think.
This is love, if you ask me. Setting an alarm at 5:33am for them, seeing them out, looking at the sky, crawling back into a still-warm bed. Miracles in the mundane.
This is love, if you ask me. Setting an alarm at 5:33am for them, seeing them out, looking at the sky, crawling back into a still-warm bed. Miracles in the mundane.
(Also, I finally ordered my copy of the book!)
How lovely I imagine your hours, I imagine a lovely air surrounding you.