by Jen Brubacher
She wakes up, again. Always the same.
Here is the room she left yesterday, and the day’s new light filtering through the curtains. There’s no more night to be had. No amount of closing her eyes will bring back the hours.
She puts one leg out from under the covers and rests her foot on the floor. That's a start.
To continue she has to move her body, sit up, and she doesn’t want to do it. There’s an endless line of tasks after that movement. There are stretches to wake up her muscles, and she can hear the cat maiowing from the kitchen, asking for breakfast. There’s her own breakfast to create and devour. Bite, chew, swallow. Repeat. She needs a shower and that would involve stripping and standing and washing and rinsing and drying and dressing. Dressing requires clothes, choosing the clothes. Every day it’s the same. Every day the line of tasks that are necessary and tedious and too much when seen from here. Too much viewed from the first moment of every day, every day.
She could take the first action. She could swing her other leg out of bed and let the cold from the floor soak up into another foot. She could start the assembly line grunting to life, familiar monotony from one breath to the next. She could do that.
She watches the day’s light move across the ceiling.
Photo: bed and pillow by kreep on flickr