Ten.Eight Hundred & Twenty-Seven
I light a stick of the incense she gave to us and set it on the kitchen counter. I remember when this used to be a ritual of mine in the green house: Wake up, get dressed, go downstairs, light incense, watch the curls of smoke rise, make coffee.
I figure out hot to remove the blade of the juicer so that I can make carrot juice for my mid-morning snack.
Horses out on the pasture. I remember how she said she read a book that talked about how there are no discordant colors in nature. That is what I experience on this drive each day. Always the right shade of blue and gold and faded green. Always like driving through a painting.
Another cup of coffee.
I make my list. It’s usually not a lot but sometimes the work is just tedious. And I am also guilty of triple-checking.
Why is something like choosing sheets so hard? I am the worst at shopping.
Always right after I leave the office is when I get the emails that are suddenly urgent.
I need to get a desk that can be tucked away into another room because when they see me they think I am home. They don’t think of me as still working, as still needing to be left alone. I get it. But even though I am here, I am not.
I just need to make.
Eyes wide open.
We are one of the towns spared. I was just listening to a story in which the reader said the words “survivor guilt.” How it feels to be one that doesn’t have to worry when so many others do. We still got gas and cash and a handful of non-perishables just in case. What a wild world we live in.