My face is on fire, the stabbing, jabbing pains of a roaring sinus infection. Fever. Unrepentent energy of a four-year-old buzzing around me, this way, that, asking "mama can I have some..." "mama can I call..." "mama get me some..." make it stop. I am drained. I am done. Got nothing, but nothing left. Exhaustion. The last two months catching up with me. Whatever reserve I had has disappeared. I think some folks ran off with it last night. One wish--put it to good use.
The brightness hits my eye like a knife this night, as I step outside to watch the sun set in the west while my heart beats to the East. I am between; I am not here, not there - entredeux. His day is my night, my night his day, we are half a clock apart, and how many miles. Not even two months. More than a month to go. Tonight nothing seems possible, bearable.
And I know this is the place where my voice is waiting. But I can't go get it. Because I'm thinking about you. I know what you're doing just now. You're getting breakfast, noodles and the rest, to fill you up before you sleep. Turn it on tonight. Don't forget. Late, long nights. The roaring rush of the absence of. Space where nothing and everything happens. Here too. Here too.
A little more than a month to go.
