Wrenched my back Saturday night. Then slept on it wrong and woke the next day as if skewered with a broad sword. Cried and cursed in my room, tried to move my motorcycle, to park it out of the way on the street, lost my balance and fell over. Out of anger and frustration, threw my slouchy backpack into the driveway and just sat by the fallen bike hoping I could seep into the cement and dirt, crying and I could water the weeds between the cracks, but that was nonsense so Scarlet helped me lift the bike, park it and head to urgent care even thought it was fathers day and she had a husband to be with and a slow cooker that hadn’t been started, and the co-pay was a fucking $75 and all I got out of it was a damn prescription and instructions to take Ibuprophen 3 times a day and it won’t get any better for somewhere after four days which means all the shit piled in my room would have to wait that much longer, be in my space that much longer weighing down on that part of my brain responsible for cheerfullness and hope.

Now, Monday morning and look on Facebook to find Samantha has written a beautiful piece about her father that reminds me a bit of my mother, and I say thank you to the god of creative writing and the god of gratitude, and my parent’s god, even though my back still makes it hard to stand up straight or walk like a woman younger than 95.

Thank you gods of pain.
Thank you gods of giving and asking for help.
Thank you Scarlet.
Thank you Samantha.
Thank you demons of despair and the calm cool blue mornings that follow behind you.


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