The air was fresh with the scent of new babies,
Of kisses on foreheads and enviously soft skin.
A strange homecoming; with three instead of two,
New furniture and accessories not included.
Quiet echoed in the doorways,
Except for the occasional scream for nourishment,
But peace prevailed and the floors stayed clean,
Although they got mopped less often.
And now? Now, the floors are dirty as soon as they're washed.
And the air is fresh with the scent of peanut butter.
There are four now, and soon after there will be five.
New furniture and accessories still not included.
Quiet happens only briefly,
And usually we're too tired to hear it.
Peace is something we remember fondly, just like clean floors.
But what we have is better than shiny linoleum.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
The Strength of Action
There was a strong sensation on her heart, like a can being crushed by powerful fingers, and it was so overwhelming that she could hardly breathe. She could feel her lungs; each distinctly and both much too clearly. It made every breath a conscious effort, a slow and inevitable suffocation surrounded her.
The descent was maddening, this terrible turmoil of crushed heart and ragged breathing. She felt herself falling in to a dark pit that she was too weak to climb out of. Her stomach turned. She crawled along the muddy ground of her mind, struggling to form a single thought. She struggled more to turn the thought in to words, and when she finally forced them out they whispered hoarsely but said nothing.
She tried to yell. She tried to articulate her pain and confusion and frustration. But instead, she meekly whimpered, feeling her lungs rise and fall, feeling her heart straining to beat. A smaller self inside of her weakly banged at the walls of her chest, struggling for freedom. It was no match for the cold exterior she had developed over the years.
What is the answer? She wondered. Death? Escape? Insanity?
Nothing resonated. Nothing truly soothed the pain.
But the knocking on her chest grew stronger, and somewhere from deep in her soul an answer shouted, MOVE.
Move? She furrowed her brow in thought. She shook her head and responded, impossible.
The voice answered, MOVE.
She resisted still. She could barely breathe, could barely lift a limb. Move where? She didn't understand.
OVERCOME. MOVE. TRY.
She thought she had been trying. But the knocking intensified, and she was suddenly aware that she hadn't tried at all. She had merely reacted.
She reached her hand above her head, feeling for some leverage. Every inch of the journey was painful. She still struggled to remember to breathe; her muscles trembled and her crushed heart tumbled on, threatening permanent dysfunction.
She toiled a long while, although she couldn't say for sure how long. An hour? A day? There was no way to know. It was dark in the pit, and she couldn't see any light above. She focused on every movement, yelled out with every bend of a limb. Everything hurt, but the knocking pushed her on.
Keep moving. Keep trying. Keep doing.
She still wasn't sure what it meant or what it was. But she noticed she wasn't struggling to remember to breathe. And later, she noticed her heart no longer felt crushed. Her body moved freely, and her voice came out strong.
As she reached a hand out of the dark, muddy pit, she sighed. She was dirty, and tired, and confused, but she was also relieved. And she knew that no matter what, if she just kept moving, she could conquer.
The descent was maddening, this terrible turmoil of crushed heart and ragged breathing. She felt herself falling in to a dark pit that she was too weak to climb out of. Her stomach turned. She crawled along the muddy ground of her mind, struggling to form a single thought. She struggled more to turn the thought in to words, and when she finally forced them out they whispered hoarsely but said nothing.
She tried to yell. She tried to articulate her pain and confusion and frustration. But instead, she meekly whimpered, feeling her lungs rise and fall, feeling her heart straining to beat. A smaller self inside of her weakly banged at the walls of her chest, struggling for freedom. It was no match for the cold exterior she had developed over the years.
What is the answer? She wondered. Death? Escape? Insanity?
Nothing resonated. Nothing truly soothed the pain.
But the knocking on her chest grew stronger, and somewhere from deep in her soul an answer shouted, MOVE.
Move? She furrowed her brow in thought. She shook her head and responded, impossible.
The voice answered, MOVE.
She resisted still. She could barely breathe, could barely lift a limb. Move where? She didn't understand.
OVERCOME. MOVE. TRY.
She thought she had been trying. But the knocking intensified, and she was suddenly aware that she hadn't tried at all. She had merely reacted.
She reached her hand above her head, feeling for some leverage. Every inch of the journey was painful. She still struggled to remember to breathe; her muscles trembled and her crushed heart tumbled on, threatening permanent dysfunction.
She toiled a long while, although she couldn't say for sure how long. An hour? A day? There was no way to know. It was dark in the pit, and she couldn't see any light above. She focused on every movement, yelled out with every bend of a limb. Everything hurt, but the knocking pushed her on.
Keep moving. Keep trying. Keep doing.
She still wasn't sure what it meant or what it was. But she noticed she wasn't struggling to remember to breathe. And later, she noticed her heart no longer felt crushed. Her body moved freely, and her voice came out strong.
As she reached a hand out of the dark, muddy pit, she sighed. She was dirty, and tired, and confused, but she was also relieved. And she knew that no matter what, if she just kept moving, she could conquer.
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