A year ago I was big as a house. Big, lumbering, fearful of the change about to descend into our lives.
A year later, I am not so big anymore. I am less lumbering. And the fear? That made way for equal parts delight and utter weariness. Most days, I would say, by the time the kids are in bed, I am wearily delighted. Delightfully weary.
Now if I could just regenerate my brain activity... the higher functioning portions... Someone said to me yesterday, "You're a writer, right?" I shook my head. But I used to be, right? I may be again someday? Right now I can't remember the last time I even read a poem.
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