I am in between. This is perpetual. Why do I need to keep discovering it as if it were brand new?
The dishes will never be done: I will turn around only to discover someone eating another bowl of granola with pearsauce. Today’s batch of bread will get eaten before the week’s out–all four loaves. And the cookies. And the yogurt, and anything else that I make. We will run out of canned tomatoes, perhaps before spring.
I will sign a book contract. It will feel provisional rather than triumphant. I will remember all the steps yet to be completed. (Like the manuscript.) It will remind me that Hair Hat never felt quite done either, even after I saw it in print.
My children will grow, but I won’t be done with them.
I will fill pages, but I won’t be done with words.
I will get up at 5:40am to run. But I won’t be done running.
None of this is discouraging; or, it shouldn’t be. To be in between is to be alive.
I am in between.
And I need my bed, just now.