It is evening. I’m tired. I hurt. I’m cross. It’s not a bad evening, at all. It is quiet. I’m okay with that. My head aches. I sip my coffee contentedly, after a homecoming punctuated by housekeeping, and unpacking from the weekend. There is laundry to do, I notice. I do dishes. I vacuum. My back aches. I check things off an imagined list I have carried with me for days, with good intentions and little action.

I find a moment of contentment and satisfaction. Enough. I reheat my coffee and sit down with it at last. I take a deep breath, it returns as a sigh. I warm my hands on the hot porcelain mug. Fuck, I hurt. It is too late in the evening to take an Rx pain reliever (they mess with my sleep). I distract myself with literal pictures of kittens – and glass marbles – and trail maps – and the almanac – and finally find myself in a somewhat better mood, generally, which is something, even if I hurt.

Some time later, I find I’ve wandered away from writing… I already no longer recall why. Probably some small task or another let go too long that finally got my attention. lol That’s okay. I’ve got this – one thing at a time, and taking care of the woman in the mirror with kindness and consideration. I look around at what I’ve gotten done this evening – more than I expected to, less than everything that needs doing. lol It’s enough.