It Always Gets Better

Meds swallowed and half a cup of coffee down by 9:38 in the morning. Plans to visit a Friend at 11 moved to 11:30 so I can take a shower, scrub my face, and fix my hair before I leave the house (yesterday’s attempt was bizarre, and I know it). Right now I’m barefoot with the remnants of Halloween hair—a tangled crimp job that I rinsed out but didn’t wash yet—at my kitchen table.

My apartment is clean—mostly. My bedroom remains an utter shit-show of thrift store clothes and unnerving tchotchkes, but my living room floor is open and the couches have the right pillows on them. Last night I lit candles in my kitchen and felt peace.

Earlier this week, Sister washed my dishes. The same pile had been sitting for two weeks. It filled one side of the sink, covered the small counter and trailed out like a caravan on the floor. Every dish dirty. We’ve been washing-to-use. Life has been suspended on this little string, this one thread that has kept most of the plates scraped for the duration, but bacterial film grows fast—I’m humbled and indebted to her for stepping in to help me rally.

So today I’ll leave. Go see my Friend who I don’t have to fake it around but who will let me practice.

(And in the midst of this writing, my teenage daughters have accidentally locked themselves in a bedroom. The 1960s gold-tone doorknob finally stopped budging. I pulled it off, but the lock mechanism is still snug in its hole, and I can’t get it out without breaking the door. Help is on the way. Happy Saturday, Tribe. Be kind to you if you are able.)

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