Frazzled Confessions
The Handy Man came home from work today, took one look at our room and said,
"It looks like the dryer threw up on our bed."
(Maybe I should fold some laundry.)
Illusive Peace
Her house is stifling. The fan above her clicks a rhythm and she lays as still as she can, hoping for relief. She pushes herself up, forcing movement that reverberates in her head. Walking through the rooms, she checks windows, praying for the breath of a breeze. She loves this house. Here she nursed and nurtured her babies. The walls show signs of life-- fingerprints and smudges. Smiling faces, captured and framed, adorn the walls. But, the walls are closing in and she retreats to the sanctuary of her room. The thoughts are pressing, intensifying the pain in her head. She tries with all her might to force them out. You're not welcome here . Still, they come. Persistent, they are. The fan beats in time with the judgements- ' not e-nough, not e-nough, not e-nough'. She puts out the welcome mat, hoping for sleep. Instead, she cries, curled into herself. But, the day is like any other, demanding, not to be ignored. Amazing how ...
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