I’m feeling blank tonight.
D1 is feeling under the weather. When I picked her up from school today, she made me push her on the spinny swing for awhile and then complained that her tummy hurt, but I didn’t really take it seriously until she crashed out on the couch at 6pm, and was clearly feverish when I woke her up two hours later to crawl up to bed.
I think that when your kids are ill, a good 96.5% of all available brainspace is devoted to 1) figuring out how to make it better, 2) convincing yourself it is not any number of terrifying lightening illnesses that could strike fast and worsen faster, and 3) trying to calm the hyperventilating imaginer that takes up residence and quickly unpacks every terrifying bit of knowledge you have about all diseases in the history of EVER.
She’s like, maybe, a tiny bit ill. She’ll wake up tomorrow at 5:30 am and be bubbly as ever. Somewhere in the remaining fraction of my brain I know that. But right now, I haven’t the capacity to even remember, let alone access, the poetic thoughts that may or may not have occurred to me today. I wish I could leave it at that, let’s leave it at that.
But, I’ve got to come up with something. So, a poem about what the majority of my thoughts are focused on right now? Yes.
This is what I know. Right now, she’s just mildly feverish. She’s had some good couch hours of sleep, and is asleep now, up there with her angel cheeks resting on the big stuffed cat. I know that she is fine, and I know for sure that I am wearing socks. Those are the only two facts in the universe. If only I can be persuasive to my soul, if only I an be convincing to myself and mean it, if only this fragment of doubt would release me of its poison, if only this great imagining of quick loss would cease its assault, if only the sure-handed certainty and rooted certainty that the world owes me pain for this life upglorious would fester for but a moment, wither, shrink, fade, and die away. What is left but the words I repeat to myself, most call them prayers, what is left but that to carry us through
They have worked before, these soothing syllables spoken by my heart. It has worked before, and will again, this soul I doubt and know for sure.
Oh, Thursday. End of the week of firsts. Happy Tomorrow, poemfriends.