Gentle Reader,
Heavy eyes tonight.
Kate says: park.
Go.
Pull into the driveway. Put the car in park. Turn off the ignition.
A moment of silence.
Go inside. Drop lunch box, purse, keys on the table. Look out the back window, beyond the rain. See the trees, blurred like a Monet painting. Colors blend and shift and fade.
I forget, sometimes, that I’m sick. A string of good days, good weeks even, come and I push myself. Beyond what I should. Beyond what I can. Like the car, I must turn my engine off. Let myself park.
Sink into the rest that the world says must not be.
Stress lurks around every corner. Pulses on every screen. Unplug. Turn off. Watch the trees. Slip underneath blanket and sigh, knowing that tomorrow will come with all its pressing concerns, yet in this right now, content.
Stop.
