mornings have always been the worst. tying back the strings, behind my back like handcuffs, i find all the reasons why terror makes sense. i wonder what the precise time of my father's death was--if i can find out--because i think my cells already know, scream awake, tell morning: no! or it's something else, the morning after the night before, violated, jerked awake decades later.: help! or it's something else, waking up into silence broken by the day, already broken before my eyes open by old wounds erupting.
it's amazing we function, any of us. pretending to move through days that pretend to matter. encouraged by moments when it all makes sense. and then back again.
that's all really. just a morning story. remembering forward. hard.