At home

There it is, I think as I lay on another layer, this is all there is.  I do not walk, I do not write.  I sleep, day upon day, I feel an exhaustion I cannot shake.

In it comes this inner quiet, I savor it, it beats the worry, and the stress and the ugly things that sometimes go on in here.  I relish this quiet, though its life is so short.

The summer nearly done and what have I accomplished?  I think nothing, but only because I have half an afghan, half a sock, an unfinished work of art, half read books, sleep only half good, my spirit tries to be happy in two houses.

I talk all night in my sleep.

I wake unrested and sleep through the news, and then later through some show about the geological era when Pangaea split, leaving Morocco behind to sail off to Nova Scotia, I wish I had actually gone to graduate school for archaeology.  I would have like that.  I would have studied ancient textiles, or pottery sherds, or petroglyphs.  I wonder how old the men’s clothing style is in Morocco as they twirl the tassel on their hats dancing in the red dirt.  I cannot imagine what the world was like then, I want to be the detective who discovers the secrets to the history of the earth.  I think of that guy in my primate anthropology class and his auburn curl that I touched in the last days of the semester because it was so beautiful I could no longer keep my hand from touching it.  I am in that place now.  The curl of my life drawing my hand, but I cannot move it.  I am caught like a man in the gaze of Medusa.  I am stone.

I wake to the phone and join the others in the pool, it is cool and refreshing, I kick my feet and wave my arms for over an hour.  I need to walk.  The dog needs to walk.  I am so tired though.  I just want to sleep.  But then, I think, I so want to write.

Part of it, is having a secret, that I don’t want to share on the blog, just in case she or he is watching.  I don’t want them bothering me anymore.  I want to live here in this town without them invading my mind, or my space.  I feel his teeth on my tongue, biting me so hard it hurt for weeks after he left.  I am silenced only because I do not want to feel that anymore.

I curl against his body, and he pats my hand as it rests on his chest, and then he turns and wraps himself around me.  I like this, here in the middle of the week.  He looks at me later from the side of the bed, and he is grinning.

And I don’t feel giddy.  I just feel home.


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