by Frances Tate Check weather forecast. Cast skeptical eyes skyward. Flip a coin. Load washing machine. Finger hovers, nuclear nervous over the start button. Commit… door locks, water rushes. No going back now. Cycle completes. Dozens of socks and smalls damply dangle like chandelier pendants from two, one-hook carousels; the washing line equivalent of a cyclist’s quick-release wheel. I promote Read More
Tag: ritual
Fret
My obligations pile up faster than I can deal with them, and I don’t know what I’m going to do. Although I don’t sweat, I can feel my hot spots revving into high gear. My pulse is racing, and I want either a mud bath or a huge bunch of bananas. You can’t fight instinct sometimes. Personal comfort has to Read More