Should I tell you about the light-drenched room that I wake up in or my delicate sheets?
Maybe how I rush out the door and onto the patio so that I can beat the sun before it rises over the mountains.
I plant my bare feet onto the concrete and raise my hands overhead as a glow emerges between the blue ranges. I pull the new day onto my head and follow it down my body as my arms descend. The orb grows until my eyes can’t take any more virtuosity.
It’s time for coffee—my favorite part of the day.
Should I share about my walks through the high desert hills? Or how the clouds are never in the same spot and the sky is full of drama?
What about the time I tried to catch a wounded bird on the road, but only scared it? It hobbled under a prickly pear cactus with a broken leg, out of my reach, but safer it seemed.
I lie with my children in their beds before sleep. My son likes the heels of his feet rubbed and my daughter likes soft tickles on her back and arms. I relish the smell of their skin and hair. Surely all mothers feel this way.
I like sleeping alone now. I take up the whole bed with my arms stretched out and toss about without disturbing anyone.
I write throughout the day in a journal that doesn’t need hiding. I am my own woman without explanation.
Just write about something happy, I tell myself today.
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