I am sitting at my window with a lap full of pages. Outside, a crow lands on the street lamp, surveys the neighborhood with a regal black brow. My coffee’s gone cold and my son is talking to himself upstairs; when I checked on him earlier he had a stick in hand and was muttering threats to an imaginary opponent: Back off, just back OFF. Two books are beside me: Heart Sick and The Kingdom of Childhood, and on top of them a plate with two pieces of peach and a blackberry slick with agave, the last bites of breakfast left to eat. The light is soft today and gray, the kind of light that comes from everywhere and nowhere at once, weak smudgy light that leaves the eye sockets in pools of shadow. It’s too dim to read. My index cards are crooked. My hair is wet and my feet are bare–one warm, tucked under my thigh, the other chilling on the footrest. I switch them and put on my glasses. Two men are playing tennis across the street, and one of them drops his racket. Around the corner, I hear a basketball, thunk thunk thunk on the pavement. I need to buy copy paper, a gallon of milk, thumbtacks for the (crooked) index cards. I hope my husband gets that job he’s up for, I hope he lets me get on top. I hope I will be pretty again someday, but the 8-ball says outlook not so good and the crow has flown away.
What are you thinking?