February 1, 2022

scrambled

I’m trying to stay optimistic, despite the constant, bruisy divot of the news.
I’m trying to love the winter through the shock of the electric bill and the threat
of invisible ice. I’m trying to hold sacred the fact of my body, living as it does
with poor sleep and the feeling like it’s only a matter of time. Of course it is.
Look at the deepening lines in my skin, my tentative grip on gravity and the price
of a hot shower. Look at how even the meteorologists couldn’t predict which way
the wind would blow. Look at how the oceans are rising, how the news only worsens.
How do we find more air to keep the balloon away from every ragged shard
that would burst it? This morning, I gave the peppermill a few more turns
on my scrambled eggs, because I could.