The day is led off by a letter to the dean, to seek assistance in remaining on the path I’ve picked for now, to beg for tolerant consideration of a student’s indecisive wandering ways.
Then on to folding laundry, paling pink from one red placemat that gave its all to share its color with its friends; unfortunately, J’s tees and jockeys. Why is it that this color, so loose with morals and hiding in the pile, then clings so steadfastly to its new homes?
Numbers, numbers, numbers for another quiz and project. But these numbers are dependable and aim to cleave themselves to brain cells in my head.
Then, at last, the creativity that balled up deep and sleeping can be nudged, awakened, and alive.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology