MORNING It is dark when I wake up. Rain pouring down, smudging the window with tiny rivers. It has been three weeks of rain.
I shower. The rooms in my small apartment are dim and blue and quiet, except for my baby's excited babble.
I dry my damp skin and wait for the collection of memories and present moments about my life to gather in my mind, making the daily mosaic whole of who I am. I dress.
The solid metal of my belt buckle. Jeans. These are the things I put on every day, that in some small way, make me who I am.
My son crawls up my legs. He needs dressing too. He asks for every fragment of my soul. All of my love, right now, this minute.
My hair is wet. Yesterday the hair dresser asked, "What products do you use?" I shrugged, "Nothing. Some days I'm lucky if I get it brushed." Her laughter tinkled through the salon, polite, young.
The heady earthy scent of coffee comes to me from the kitchen. Already on the floor, a myriad of blocks. I breathe in. I breathe out. I am here. Now.
