I woke up at 3:30 this morning when my husband got out of bed. I was planning things I had to do today and what comes first and what can wait and why hadn't I done them yesterday. I was off to Fayetteville and Manhattan (Kansas) and Des Moines and Santa Barbara, rehearsing what I would say to Annette and Kate three weeks from today and Susanne in November and Auntie Ruth in January and Michelle in the spring of 2016. And rehearsing what I should have said in the presentation last Sunday, instead of the joke that an entire audience did not laugh at.
My husband came back to bed and did that spooning thing.
In a heartbeat, my world shrank down to the few square inches where his bathrobe––all soft and warm––brushed against my back, and where his arm was flung across my shoulder. Everything went quiet. Like the middle of winter when there's six inches of snow on the ground, and it's still coming down in wet fat flakes, and you cannot believe how quiet the city is.
Wouldn't it be outstanding to transport myself to this tiny silent universe at the flip of a switch? I can't. However, when I find myself there, I can say thank you.
My husband came back to bed and did that spooning thing.
In a heartbeat, my world shrank down to the few square inches where his bathrobe––all soft and warm––brushed against my back, and where his arm was flung across my shoulder. Everything went quiet. Like the middle of winter when there's six inches of snow on the ground, and it's still coming down in wet fat flakes, and you cannot believe how quiet the city is.
Wouldn't it be outstanding to transport myself to this tiny silent universe at the flip of a switch? I can't. However, when I find myself there, I can say thank you.
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