waiting hands

I woke crumbling. Walking like a ghost through the fading corridors of my night's dreams.  Sorting the images as they disappeared.

After the last of the vapors vanished I laid there trying to account for the emotional hangover pressing against me but I couldn't find a reason for it. 

I padded downstairs, made coffee, and loaded the "not my dinner" dishes into the dishwasher.  The kitchen holding the burden of proof of my hasty exit from home to work yesterday when a coworker suddenly had to leave sick and I was asked to come in.

Outside the seldom seen white rabbit hopping in delicate circles around the grass.  I watched her as I rested against the clutter of the kitchen. 

Numbers running through my head. Tuition prices, training camps, new grips, earning averages verses months to next season...

Beside the numbers all the conversations of yesterday strolling persistently along. And under that all the things I didn't say but wanted to. Things not said to the people I worry the most about.  Phone calls not made, secrets not told, letters not sent.

"Did you sleep okay?'  BC asked when he woke an hour or so later joining me on the sofa. 

Me holding a lone cup of coffee, half gone, and in clear violation of the golden rule of our relationship: always bring the other a cup of morning coffee.  Fourteen years of cups of coffee passing between us.  Some sacrificed to cool and die on a bedside table of the other's late morning start. Most placed in waiting, grateful hands.

"I don't know," I answered looking past him, "I don't feel well... and my shoulder hurts."

"Misty," he said, "hand me your cup.  I think you just need someone to bring you a cup of coffee."

Beach cleaned the kitchen.
BC mowed the lawn.
I made us waffles.
And the day started over.
The white rabbit was gone.