One robin sings in spite of nightfall. A distant hum of some appliance drones outside. The stairs creak under Mira’s footsteps. The ledge of the Wall-unit desk has fewer chakas on them. My own tired eyes and enshadowed crows’ feet gaze at me from the mirror enclosed by the unit. A tenitial hum in my ears persist.
Another breath. More taps on an Acer keyboard, as life unfolding becomes distilled by linguistic craft into this prose. The soar lower lumbar, the disjointing numbness at the shoulder and hip sockets, the tingling sensation like ants crawling back and forth of my lower arms and legs–it’s all there.
The “Viana” clock–a wedding gift from Mira’s former employer (and our current dentist)–strikes quarter after eight. Another yawn. So many sensations in so few moments, in this time after dinner and before bed. This time for which we work hard each day of the week.
a rumble in the sky
from a passing jet
how we draw our pleasures
from these supple hours
for Real Toads’ Write Here. Write Now, Paul Scribbles hosting
#GloPoWriMo2018 / NaPoWriMo2018 18/30