Third time this morning I filled my small clay cup with thin drip coffee and milk; not my rich red-black espresso norm. Up off and on all night with the littlest little, his chest hacking with cough and a rattle that unsettles every mama nerve. So tired but listening. At times resting my hand on his warm chest and my hazy gaze on his too pink cheeks. You know just making sure.
This morning my head swivels slowly, owl-like, taking in this and that. These plants that need watering. Again. Who grows ferns and orchids and lime trees at 5280 with bone sucking dry air? Half a room painted, disheveled. Art leaning against walls, waiting to be hung. This weekend a photographer is coming here. I have to remind myself she is for us not the house. Still, the push I need to complete the short list around here that's been lingering. And then I can think seeds. And then.
I need a massage and warm yoga on Wednesday morning. I need more raw less braised. I need a very very long walk. The swiveling owl again. No excuses. On my belly and chest I have bright red circles puffed up on my skin. Last week, after coming down from the mountains, I had wires and tests and reasons to be scared waiting for me. I've been bargaining with god. Anything. Absolutely anything. Just don't ever make my boys grow up without me.
It was last night, in the middle of the night, that I breathed in what turned out to be my fine and textbook beautiful heart as I curled up around my other beating heart.
I've got work to do.
