Sam’s release from the hospital is delayed again. There’s a lot of work to be done here before we fly out next week. My feet are cold.
What didn’t occur to me when I desperately planned the floral pick-me-up was that I prefer green buds . . .
. . . green buds show life with silent, confident potential.
Once a flower begins to open . . .
. . . it’s more than halfway to death. I guess there’s nothing so terribly wrong with that.
Now it’s time to go to the office and stop putting off the fucking worker’s compensation insurance audit. (How did that become my job? Note to self: grow the company so you can hire someone else to do HR.)
Grateful to have a job–to be able to eat and pee–for plumbing–for lungs and oxygen–and yes . . . I get all that. I do.
The fact is, I was just typing those words, I wasn’t really feeling grateful. Maybe later.
I just want to stay in bed for a day. With socks on.