I made the cider donuts, all that sugary goodness, but not before I burned my wrist because I wasn’t wearing an oven mitt. Because the kids were bickering in the other room. Because I grabbed what I could get my hands on. Because I wasn’t paying attention.
It wasn’t the first time. A year and a half ago, on my daughter’s tenth birthday, I burned the same wrist pulling cupcakes out of the oven. Now I have two marks—one healed, the other fresh—as evidence of my neglect. This new one doesn’t seem as bad and I hope it doesn’t leave a scar.
This morning, the darkness lingered for a long time after a night of rain. I couldn’t shake it off, the darkness. It followed me to the chiropractor, then to the gym where it sweated off of me. I didn’t want to go—not to my appointment or the gym or the grocery store or liquor store. I didn’t want to come home where all our conversations this week centered around juggling this new way of schooling for my daughter, a quasi-homeschool where my husband and I play the middle men, the study hall monitor, the tutors, and the parents.
This afternoon, I’m exhausted and feel like I have nothing to show for my week. How do we measure the weight of unmeasurable things—our conversations, the hugs, the endless waiting, all this uncertainty? Is it simply the number of coffee cups I’ve consumed or, perhaps, how many cider donuts are left? Is the noise of the kids after school, giggling as they stuff as many marbles as they can into the marble race they made? Is it a quiet moment in my office to write?
It’s Friday, and I suppose that should mean something. It does, but I don’t take the time to think too deeply about it. Maybe the sun will shine for a while and I can sit on the couch and marvel at the walnut tree across the street for a while, counting the walnuts that drop and the yellow leaves that sweep up and across the empty yard. I haven’t a clue what’s next, but I’m here anyway. Every moment is the present moment. Every moment is this.
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