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You awake. You, awake.

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Sometimes you wake up and all is perfectly clear. Your thoughts your plans your item by item day is visceral in your hands, you are here and the day is here and your thoughts are tidy as library rows, only instead of novels and history they are brief works of daytime prose and narrative illustration.

Sometimes you wake up and instead of feeling the cat who was slept on your legs and your chest for almost 18 years you feel only a lack of weight, except in your heart which is still heavy, heavy, heavy with her loss. Which is, incidentally, where she sleeps now.

Sometimes you wake up and wonder how you got so blonde and what, subsequently, should be done about your eyebrows now that you look like someone else.

Sometimes you wake up and when you breathe you realize that you are still breathing, and what a gift that is, and without having to think too far you realize that when you get up you will be able to walk, and what a gift that is, and when you go to drink water there will be water to drink, and what a gift that is.

Sometimes you woke up and you didn’t really awake. You lost days weeks months in a poisoned haze and when you look through your pockets to see what you did for all that time, you realize you’re the kind of person who never puts anything in her pockets.

Sometimes you wake up, and truly, that is all there is. You woke up. There is love in your home. There is nothing more to ask for, except to wake up again.

S

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