The soft, vacuum whiffs of Kev's snoring. Gravelly purrs from my kittens, and a polar bear of a robe so thick that I have to roll up the sleeves.
My house is asleep and I am awake, which never happens. Outside, the world is waking up, with cheeping birds and the sharp freshness of springtime rain. 10:22 on Saturday, April 14th.
The house is cluttered, the laundry still. Piles of tidying await, and several plan options exist for the evening. But for now, all is quiet. 10:23 on Saturday, April 14th.
Soon I will clear up the bottles, rinse the plates. Put the piles of clothes away. Dust. Tidy. Sort. But in this moment, my fingers whisper over the keys, and I want to capture this peace of my life. After weeks of self-doubt, teary breakdowns, and contemplating relationships and their continual backwards-forwards-slip-sliding, things are quiet. Calm. Right. 10:25 on Saturday, April 14th.
I've realized that I'm sensitive to relationship movement. That as I get older, I have a sharper eye on what is happening around me, the way the puzzle fragments are fitting, then breaking, then fitting again. But what I'm just starting to grasp is that things work out the way they should. There is a plan. The universe is orderly, and no matter how much I fret, it will all be strange and beautiful and challenging anyway. That is the way. Whether I like it or not. 10:27 on Saturday, April 14th.
So before I get up, become the helpful, thoughtful wife who caters to her sick husband, tidies the house, brings wine to evening parties with friends, and feeds my fluffballs; I need to remember that there is one plan. It's not always mine. Don't overthink, don't plan, today is enough- tomorrow will be too.
10:29 on Saturday, April 14th.