Water torture

It rains and rains and rains and rains. The ground melts, grass, rocks, sidewalk, pavement, into an indeterminate gray-brown mush.  The sky melts down the edges of the horizon into the straggly tree line.  The gnome hats of snow on top of the fence posts on the corner melt and run weakly down the side to the ground.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I start to fade like Bilbo wearing that damn ring. It's so easy to let the evil dripping in.

Drip. Drip. Drip. It's the sound of my brain melting.

You have to fight it. Claw your way to color. Pour it inside you and surround yourself with it and dunk your head under its icy surface until your edges sharpen and you feel and think and see and hear around the gray.

With an extra-hot, creamy (forget nonfat, pull out the big guns), extra-pump chai.  Pump it, barista. Make the spice bite my tongue when I sip.  It tastes like multi-colored glitter.

With a fire so hot that sparks fly from our chimney. It pulses inside the woodstove, draws my eye, focuses my mind.

With Nate's giggles, Quinn's outraged three-year-old screams, Hampton Noodle's snores, Garrett's precise, formal questions, Saige's tap-dancing, watch me, momma, watch me.

Click. Clickity-click. Click.


Hold me. Feed Me. Help me. Love me. Pop rocks of emotion, fizzing on my tongue.

I turn to them like the sun, close my eyes, warm my face. 



March in the Pacific, NW.  We hates it, precious.