i know which pillow is mine. the one with feathers and the tattered striped cover.
the one that is damp from my thick wet hair, from seawater, and smells of blood oranges and vanilla.
right now, i want to become one with that pillow and give it an extra dose of my weariness.
i am so tired.
tired from pacing the floor last night with a burning hot pain in my chest. habanero perhaps. and a new sensitivity.
tired from pacing years of my life around the fears and capacities of others.
i am tired enough to let the shopping cart run over my toe,
and to almost let the veterinarian make me feel bad that the dog has fleas.
i am too tired to sit and figure this out with you. to make it more than it is.
i need to go to sleep.
this kind of tired is a teacher who makes it easy to see the wisdom of my wanting.

i am so grateful that i know which pillow is mine.