I woke up to creaking stairs and slamming doors. The ustle of Sunday morning had started without me. Disappointed in my fate, I dragged myself from my warm rice sock. An hour later, I'm sitting in Sunday School. It's not that I don't WANT to be there... well, yes it is. I'm cold and hungry and tired. A mother's retort would be "Then put a coat on and eat breakfast!"-however, I just don't feel like it. After months of cold, the coat ceases to be your best friend and is more of a simple mar on your spirit- a sign of lingering death and bitterness. It puffs out it all the wrong places, making one almost look pregnant.
I don't feel like eating either.
After church, I stand at the table peeling potatos. They are cold, hard, and slimy. I feel the crumbs and water droplets under my stiff, bare feet. Cats and dogs work on them, yet they still stick to my soles and make me cringe. I can hear the faint voices of Avalon below me, and more presently, the tickling, monotonous pluckings of Phil Keagey. The same ones I have heard every Sundy afternoon my entire life.
Every time I look outside, I see the dusting of snow on the ground and remember there is no escape.
Someday there will be. Someday I'll travel the world. In the next season of my life, I'll go to Africa and Australia. I'll follow the Amazon river to it's source. I'll walk along the golden coast of California. I'll see the wonders of Alaska and the mysteries of India.
The sunshine. The smells. The heartbeats of alien souls. The smiles and music that make us all equal.
But as of now, I'll watch El spill water and food everywhere. I'll watch the dogs clean it up. I'll tuck my feet underneath me to warm them up.
And I'll keep listening to the same old track, insanely waiting for it to someday be different.
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