2024

I wake up and put my mother’s jewelry back.

The raw, red, soles of my feet ache as I tiptoe across wooden floors, sticky with something I'm reluctant to clean.

My throat is sore, although I sang and screamed, it's more than likely from my cough.

I see the sun, bright and blazing, I’m about to drive for 50 minutes, I should get my sunglasses.

I’ve cleaned more champagne glasses than I can count on both hands, and I want to rest on my sofa, but it’s not yet back in the living room.

I’m three fourths of the way through my book, I’ve already set my reading goal for this year. Something more achievable than last’s, considering I had to lower it thrice.

My nails are streaky and smudged, I won’t have the time to re-do them. Maybe tomorrow.