She's crying again. Not a lot has changed.
But then, everything has. It always does.
This particular fit doesn't surprise me. I saw it coming. It was circling her eyes all morning. My detached voice doesn't particularly surprise me either. I've been practicing calm collected slow even still. Sometimes I'm pretty good at it.
She's sitting on the kitchen floor, wailing about who knows what anymore. I tell her she can join us outside as soon as she can stop crying.
My blanket she gasps.
It's the only way she can stop. She knows this about herself. That blanket is magic. It grounds her.
Go get your blanket then.
I can't fiiiiiiind it.
It's on the green rocking chair in the living room. (She can see it from where she's sprawled.)
I can't fiiiiiind the chair. (I direct her again.)
It's easier, isn't it, to leave the taps open, water pouring out, than do whatever work it requires to close those valves.
This goes on and on. Until it doesn't. And then it's done.
Now it's my turn.
I sit outside, notebook on my lap, a story finally unfolding. I read through what I have and add a single word before they're asking. Asking again. It's something I don't feel like doing.
But I do it.
And I'm ugly the whole time. No my face isn't green but it might as well be. Its a heavy color.
Of course I know exactly what I need. But I refuse to find my breath. I had it wrapped all around me just this morning but that doesn't matter. I will do anything but pick it up right now. I'll cringe and contort and crouch as far from the present moment as I possibly can. On and on until it's done.
And so I suffer.
Even though I know i know i know i know
Today the sun is out and a perfect breeze fills my lungs. She asks for another push and I press my palm against her back. The outer bones of my hand span her width and connect with her sacrum. I inhale as she laughs and flies forward. Grounded.