LXXIX.

Yesterday morning, I woke up too early, feeling tired and a little directionless, a little uncertain of my commitment to the things that had made me so happy for two weekends straight, a little lonely, a little of that old winter-is-coming-and-I’m-not-ready. And I had nothing in the refrigerator but eggs, and couldn’t eat eggs so early, so I put on formal shoes with my sweatpants and ran down the street, around the corner, down another block to the deli. When I walked back home with cream and yoghurt in a black plastic bag, I suddenly saw that the morning was brilliantly sunny. But it wasn’t just the sunshine: it felt, for a few minutes, like everything was going to be okay. And then it was.

I think I am just getting the creative part of my head back from where it’s been for two months, on the good side, poured into pushing my teaching to somewhere it hasn’t gone yet, on the bad side, reluctantly given over to trying to be the person someone else wanted me to be.

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