present

I used to be able to sit down and start writing. Lots of poetry, lots of big thoughts. It didn’t matter what my surroundings looked like – a cramped, dirty apartment that smelled like cigarette smoke and sweat; a cypress cabin filled with plants and tchotchkes; the room in this house that used to be the guest room. It was neat, organized, clean. A glass bottle collection was on top of the tall bookshelf, everything matched.

Today I’m sitting at my kitchen table, where my laptop stays for homeschooling purposes (and I can play video games without being tucked away from the kids and I think somehow that’s parenting – accessible, but distracted.) There’s a baseball uniform drying on the back of the chair next to me. There’s a pile of stuffed animals on the floor across the room. Controllers and water bottles litter the TV stand. It was quiet, just birdsong and the hum of the house, but my youngest wandered in – he’s been sick, thrown up two nights in a row (is he ok? do we need a specialist?). I find it hard to write like this. Cluttered, dirty, bothered.

I’ve been in a lot of pain this past week (so much? so much pain/a lot of pain/some pain). I feel itchy all over, sore, tired. I can’t sleep because I wake up during the night and catalog what hurts – neck, back, shoulders, arm, hips, calves, ankles, the balls of my feet, my head, all the time.

But morning comes – I’m on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, scrolling on my phone. A man shot his eight kids, the government did something awful, the Earth is going to die, a fat cat dangles his arms over the back of the couch. Then coffee, start the washer, light a candle, sit down to plan my day – and write. There’s mopping, and school, and three meals, and laundry, and baseball. There’s a tummy to rub, a cat to feed, a young man to listen to when he decides he wants to talk. There’s parenting to be done – accessible, and present.