The clearest indication that the task of raising one’s head from one’s pillow is becoming more difficult paints itself in smears of blood and scatters its message in tufts of hair. Normally, whatever that means, the simple act of raising the limbs and trunk is completed without question, without fuss. Yet, as years pass, as women come and go, as new lives emerge from the ashes of old ones, these first movements of the day seem to have become more taxing than was previously the case. Wheezing, half earnest encouragement; the promise of fresh, buttered toast; the precise smell of warm gold; these phantom hoists gently coax the sluggish body from its funky cot, followed wearily by the mind. Ethereal music echoes across the kitchen floor, streaming through microbes of dust, odd insect limbs and ribbons of cellophane, ending at a giant, gnarled set of feet. Hairs jut out of sticky looking flesh like dark brown tubes, tapering into smoother, more ticklish crevices. And, like droplets of chocolate, moles sit upon forearms; idle, almost parasitical.
The slap of the sole on laminate floor.
Big sky whipping up the whooping atoms of Thursday.