Slow-Cooked Sentences

One hundred days later

Rachael Conlin Levy

To live with resistance, drag, pull.

This is what life is.

I wake.

Open my eyes.

Aaah, here is the familiar ache in the neck, the need for a visit to the bathroom, the hairy back of my husband as he snores and turns in sleep.

I walk into the kitchen and begin the day.

A grind of coffee and of news.

Some days it surprises me more than others.

The coffee because I am eager for its taste after so many years of daily use, and, as for the news — well, who is not shocked by Trump?

Some days I dare not listen because my mind recognizes its own fragility.

You see, I am weary of fighting the world’s wrongs.

I am tired of defending.

But I go forth anyway, weighted and worn.

Here is the recipe for my worry: One part melancholy, one part pissed-off and two parts resignation.

Of course, this varies depending on news, weather, and if I’ve gotten laid.

What’s in your worry?

How do you make it through the day?

I’m learning to take notice.

It’s not as easy as it sounds, this mindful watching.

Yesterday, I saw a crow carrying a bone in its beak land in the bird bath.

A bone?

Yes, it looked like a chicken bone.

The crow dunked it, dipped it, then tore at a bit of flesh.

I smiled at its absurdity.

What else?

I saw the wind rip cherry blossoms from branches and fill the air with twirling pink petals.

I held my breath for a second and watched that.

You see, it helps.

For a few seconds I stretched out in the grass and felt sunlight warm my thighs and belly.

And I drank an icy chocolate shake made by one son, and later, long after the glass was empty, the milkshake’s waxy sweetness coated my mouth.

You see, despite all the shit going on, sometimes, briefly, I’m filled with joy.

Still filled with joy.

This feels like an accomplishment.

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2 responses to “One hundred days later”

  1. Andrea Lani says:

    Nice. Little moments of joy, in the midst of the apocalypse. Sometimes it feels absurd. Sometimes I have to pretend there’s nothing outside my little world.

  2. Denise says:

    Oh yes. Each day this context we’re living in becomes more and more difficult to comprehend. I’m holding on to those brief moments of joy with both hands.

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