Musing in pajamas

Clad in flannel jammas at my kitchen table sipping ginger tea, I’m thinking how can I transfer a photograph life-sized onto a sheer white panel curtain so that it appears as if my young great grandmother is standing beside my window.

I was ill yesterday, my bones ached, my skin was pale and my eyes were rimmed so that it looked as though I’d worn mascara then had a good, long cry. I left work before noon came home and slept, drank Gatorade, tried to read a dishonest book and slept again till morning. Tonight all sounds are amplified: the dog’s nails on the wooden floor, the running water, the drone of the computer, my son shifting in his chair.

Run to some silent place. My mind whispers, “O WORLD, I cannot hold thee close enough.” And it is a prayer almost, not that I hold the world, but that it hold me securely, drive away the urge to fling all steadiness away, shed responsibility like dirty clothes. But no water could cleanse this sin, and I’ve been naked before.

Oh, Monika, you’re so prone to hyperbole. You all might as well know that from the outset.