Guilty

The night is over, the sun isn’t awake yet. But you are. You in your over-worn pajamas that somehow bring comfort though the threadbare material holds little warmth to your stretched out over-worn body. You can feel the cold bite of the winter morning both in your toes as you touch the wooden floor boards and in your bones as they creak from overuse. You step into your over-used slippers and shuffle silently into the other room. Careful to remain silent as you pour a cup of yesterday’s coffee and warm it in the microwave. You read the ramblings online of other fellow “night owls” just as the sun begins its crawl upward from the horizon. The sky is a murky lavender that scratches at your inner demons. The house is still silent as you sit clothed in darkness. As the sun pushes away the night’s leftover darkness you file your insecurities away alphabetically: Analytical asshole, Bitch, Cynical, Depressed, Enough? You file and file, tuck and tuck, push and push. Until the dusty library in the corner of your worn-out soul looks as tidy as you try to feel. The librarian is a black silhouette against the scarred walls, he chuckles and holds out a forgotten file. Guilt. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. A hard swallow as you take your day’s assignment and tuck it under a battered arm.

Your children are stirring in their beds just as you finish your briefing.

The coffee pot hisses its finish just before chirping its completed task. You feel guilty for the caffeine addiction.

Your children whine as they meet the closed gate in their doorway. You feel guilty for needing to shut them in.

You fill two cups of milk. Then feel immense guilt over their lactose allergies.

You change their sopping nighttime diapers and wrap them in chemically laden cotton. You feel guilty that at three one is not potty trained. You feel guilty for pushing potty training.

Your husband dresses in the room next door. You feel guilty that he has to hunt for his pants in a basket of clean, not-folded laundry.

You feed the dog. You feel guilty that he doesn’t go outside enough to play. You feel guilty that he doesn’t get the attention he deserves.

You feed the children breakfast. And feel guilty that it’s not healthy enough. Not filling enough. Not good enough.

You do dishes. And look to the left to see another two loads piled up on the countertop. Guilty.

The day lays itself out with multitudes of opportunity to use the file tucked under your arm.

Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.