Blistering, Boiling, Burning
It's hot. Our swamp cooler is limping along, trying to keep up with the rising temperatures. The smallest exertion causes me to drip. I don't want to do anything. I don't want to clean. I don't want to cook. I want to lay on my bed, under my ceiling fan, and try not to move. My house doesn't care that we're rivaling Hell today. Dishes must be washed and floors vacuumed. I feel the bead of sweat as it travels down my back. I bend over and get drops on my glasses. My hair, which I grew out for some strange reason, is always damp and begs to be put up off my neck. The day finally ends and the Handy Man and I are lying on our bed atop the covers. The ceiling fan brushes a slight breeze over my legs. I'm grateful that the sun has slid into slumber and the mercury is making its way back down. I close my eyes to enjoy the quiet. But, it isn't quiet. Across the hall, one daughter is on her phone, exclaiming about the wonders of her new laptop. ...