I think perhaps we sometimes become so fatigued, despite carefully tended sleep, that we become odd, our thinking scrambled and strange.
I certainly entertain that thought, as I seem to crumble from my love, from his illness, as he does beautifully. As he bears no mind to my weight gain, my ungainly circles pervading the land beneath my eyes, the dervish dance of new creases and wrinkles spanning my face and arms.
There are moments when I wonder how how people manage these things.
And then somehow a voice, much like the kind of grandparent we each would have loved to have, or would love to become, murmurs to me – patiently.
That it is simply like this, this small collateral damage.
To stop whining about what wrong is not coming to visit.
To relax into whatever greets us today.
To trust this, our beneficent realm.
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