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shadows & light: rituals
sunday, march 31, 2002

sometimes, most times, always, never

sometimes in the morning i awake, sometimes 9, sometimes 10. i stumble down the stairs, not quite asleep, not quite awake, sometimes not quite dressed. sometimes i hear the teenager clattering down the stairs, most times i don't. sometimes i hear daughter number two bolt out the door, sometimes i don't, but i always never see her. sometimes i tell my youngest it's time to leave, sometimes she's gone before i think about it.

most times i am awakened by my wiggly-squiggly boy, wriggling, humming, and spinning. he exhaust me just from watching him. sometimes he walks out to meet his bus, most times he races across the grass no matter how often we tell him not to.

silence. stillness. sometimes.

sometimes i am awakened by ro, sometimes not. awake or not, the kitten always takes it upon herself to make sure, no sometimes. she races, she bounces, sometimes she attacks, sometimes she doesn't. she zips, sometimes up the stairs, sometimes down. across the back of the couch, leap off, dash into the kitchen, hump!, across the back of the chair, always rest on the laptoppppppp.

sometimes i realize i'm late, sometimes a lot, sometimes not so much. always ruch up the stairs, digging for clothing. sometimes i get a shower, sometimes i don't. most times i had one the night before. debating on 10 pm clothing, sometimes the coat, sometimes the shawl, always the scarf. frantic packing, sometimes books, sometimes a 3-ring, always the laptop, rushing, frantic to catch the bus. i don't, i never, run.

no silence. no stillness. always.

easy, casual walk to dinner, people shuffle in line, ready to pay, sometimes i'm one of them, sometimes i'm not. always move forward two steps, wait, ease forward two steps, shift back and forth, step forward two steps, search for change, pay. collapse in a chair, eat, sometimes i'm hungry, sometimes i'm not, but i always eat something. dinner is 6 1/2 hours away.

class ends. sometimes i race for the bus, sometimes i don't, always pause long enough to call home. always. hop up the stairs, drag my rolling bag on behind, use a bus pass. always slump into the front seats, sometimes the bus goes, sometimes it waits. reach my stop, step down, sometimes stiff and slow, sometimes with a bounce. a brisk walk around the corner, sometimes stumbling, somtimes not.

the dark shadow of my husband ambling up to meet me, sometimes in shows, sometimes not. and he wonders how he wears out his socks. together we stroll home, hand in hand.

silence. stillness. almost always.

site of the moment:
site of the moment:
word of the moment: ceilinged

adjective form of ceiling: the overhead inside lining of a room; an overhanging shelter or a lofty canopy; the height above the ground from which objects on the ground can be seen and identified; an upper prescribed limit