I desperately need to sleep, but we’re going out for dinner tonight so I don’t have time. Instead I get into the bath, except we don’t have quite enough hot water to fill the tub and I think, “That figures.”
Parts of my limbs stick out and they feel cool in contrast to the hot water. Cold, at first, but then refreshing.
I lie back and feel a single drop of water slide down my face. It bisects my temple exactly and then rolls toward my cheekbone where it disappears entirely, absorbed into the moisture on my face. I wonder if it was a tear, but no, tears don’t start at the temple, and besides, I’m holding my tears in.
I’m so tired.
I deliberately brought nothing to entertain me into the bath – no book, no phone, no iPad. I’m trying to force myself to relax and sink into something other than mothering, but at first the thoughts rush through my mind like a river – fast, tumbling over rocks, rushing past the stillness outside it.
Soon, eyes closed, I notice that the warmth from the water has seeped up through my body, and my knees and shoulders are no longer cold. All I feel is heat. It makes me sleepy.
For a while there is nothing. The river is still.
Then, for a moment, I lift my hand from the water to scratch an itch. The air feels cool and it wakes me up a bit. Then the contrast – heat again as I sink my hand back into the water.
Overhead, the bathroom fan is loud. Normally this bothers me but today I am grateful that it drowns out the noise, both in my head and beyond the door.
The river is still. Warm. Sleepy.
Almost asleep.
Time to get out.
[This was last week and I’ve significant catch-up sleep since then. I wrote this in my head in the bath (because apparently my brain doesn’t respond to “stop”) and then did some free-writing when I got out to get it down. It just seemed like something worth capturing.]
