Walk the city for hours only to
collapse in a heap on
the rug where we wipe our feet
when we come home at night.
Leave on my shoes, coat, and backpack.
Stare straight ahead into the dark,
lying on my belly.
For hours I gasp for air.
My husband gets home and helps me into bed.
I sleep only partially and
wake up regularly to reach out into the night.
Press my palm against his shoulder and
my feet into the curve of the back of his knees.
Didn’t make up any stories about failure or wasting time. Didn’t try to assign meaning to food consumed or hours spent sitting, spent sleeping. We were playful and our apartment dripped with laughter. Kisses exchanged during lulls in the storyline. Shoulder rubs traded between trips to get another cup of coffee.
Easy.
It’s been five days since I last felt hopeless. Since I felt the need to curl my knees into my chest and squeeze tight enough to shut myself completely. Existing hasn’t been hurting and that’s exciting. I’ve been catching myself humming.
The laziness of the weekend didn’t get a grasp on Monday morning. I bounced out of bed and made my way to yoga class. No griping about messing anything up. No mumbling about how I should have done something different.
Waiting for the tightness to creep into my chest. To whisper that I need to start preparing. Nothing smooth can last. We’re all bound to slip again. The impermanence of joy, of ease, of comfort. But instead I take another breath and ask, “Why should that matter?”
Ruby Pipes 