Thursday, January 6, 2011

Yes, I fell down the stairs. No, I'm not hurt. Yes, I had to write about it. It's what I do.

Its 10pm. I watch the computer screen go black. It, at least, will sleep through the night. I'm kind of jealous.

In the bathroom, I peel the contacts off my eyes. I can't see as well with my glasses on, but I don't have to look closely to notice the water spots and toothpaste reside and onlygodknowswhatelse plastered to the counter top. It was like this all day but suddenly I can't stand it anymore. Not for another second. I stick my toothbrush between my teeth and trudge upstairs for a paper towel. This has to be done right now.

Going back down, foot on the stair. Slippery sock? Misjudged step? What the hell. Not a smooth ride. Six stairs down, foot smarting, butt definitely bruised, toothbrush somehow NOT lodged in my throat. John is at my shoulder, asking if I'm alright. I nod through angry, embarrassed tears.

I carry on -- get that counter clean, get myself to bed.

And get up more than once -- all three kids have been sick this week. (again)

Now it's 5am and all five of us are coughing. Not a pleasant chorous but no one can stop. I wait for someone's cry but everyone finally quiets. I get one more hour of sleep.

And I'm thankful.

For nights that dawn into days. For colds that clear up eventually. For arms and legs and minds that work. For the hand on my shoulder. And mostly, for the hope that hedges over the horizon on the heels of the sun. It holds me together.

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