She lay in bed last night, heartsore. Our recent open house yielded a paltry number of visitors. Another in a neighboring village boasted a double-digit turn-out. She wonders aloud if we’ll ever leave “Dad’s Mausoleum.”
I wake stiff and tired. Our kitchen skylight rattles with rain. I feel martyred by a coffee-maker’s failure to automatically brew–whose timer I forgot to send. An annual review awaits. I spent so much of last week managing email with a recalcitrant school vendor. Now, I wonder how well prepared I am for the annual. Grades are due tomorrow. A night of grading last-minute student work submissions lies in my immediate future.
When did exhaustion become a way of life?
a fresh cup of coffee