This is my idea of recovery. A window seat in a quiet home overlooking a bustling morning commute of cyclists on a crisp day. A crowd I don’t have to be a part of.
A hot tea, fresh get-well-soon flowers from my a dear friend, a blank page and a smooth black inky pen. Heaven is right here. My body is at rest, my soul is being mended. Perfect contentment asserts itself with tears welling above my unforced grin.
I try to pass my joy onto anyone who would receive it, via the most sincere care-bear-stare through my window seat. Awkwardly intense eye contact lands on the occasional casual glance of a pedestrian. They received it with a thin lipped smile volleyed back, then find their shoes more interesting.
How am I going to spend this privileged time?
Reflect deep enough – write an impactful chapter, or poem,
or pray hard enough to ‘properly’ used this time this time set apart?
The silt of a stagnant worry slowed my daydreamy hope.
I notice the word try entered my stream of consciousness some moments before. Ruthless eliminate it from the landscape of my soul — don’t push the river.
I find my way back to the current of joy again, grasp a funny inflatable floaty and hop back in. Today is a good day, because I am not it’s chauffeur.
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