No work for me this weekend. Resting. Processing. Recuperating. Recharging.
I putter. Watching some TV. Listening to music. Reading. Writing. Plotting my next project.
Sunday I manage a nap…and for the first time in days, my dreams don’t wake me in a cold sweat, yelling for people to get down…to run…to get away from the laughing drug dealer who, even as he steps over bystanders’ bodies, just won’t run out of bullets.
The wife sits across from me, reading, occasionally looking up at me. We share a look then…a promise…a reaffirmation…that only intimates can make or understand. Nineteen years and my heart still gives a lurch.
The caffeinated kitten, who now (and seemingly rather suddenly) inhabits a big orange cat’s body, bounds in through the gap we left in the patio door for some fresh air…his collar jangling. He prances up and proudly deposits his latest catch at my feet…a large leaf from the front bushes. It joins the growing pile of similiar prizes he’s left me in the last hour.
He gets some praise and a quick skritch behind the ears and he’s off to his next big adventure.
The Maine Coon is upside down, half in and half out of a bag on the kitchen floor…his natural habitat methinks. He snores.
Bills to pay. Back to work tomorrow. Normalcy.
And yet I wonder…is that okay?
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