She climbs the long flight of stairs worn weary from the day of smiling and nodding and acting as if it’s all ok. She shuts the door softly as to not indicate that she has finally come to the end of herself feeling like a porcupine with all her quills sticking the wrong way in.
Her bones ache, the hair on her head feeling like it is pulling out from every end. Is there no end to it? No peace, no calm, she sighs as if expelling a bit of the raggedness from her soul. Her shoulders are stooped and her feet aching and swollen. She wonders how she can keep on this way and finally lays her head to rest.
She slips into sleep as if into a canoe floating its way down a stream and the unending demands slip as petals on the water. One then another, and then several all at once. She breathes deep and feels the mist rising off the water, hears the whippoorwill
off in the distance. The sound of the water against the bottom and the gentle rocking of the boat bring her to a quietness in her soul.
She awakens to the sound of the baby in the other room her gaze calm, her demeanor peaceful and if you look closely you can almost see the dampness of the mist in her hair.