Stretching her arms upward and outward, she clasps her hands together. Noticing the characteristic light patterns mottling her bedroom walls. Then studying how thin her arms look in this posturing.
By a microscopic victory, it was the leverage against the quicksand in her arthritic bones. The itinerary beckons. The laundry has entered its own geological era.
Normalcy, so far. Yet, of late, it has been interrupted. Maybe it’s Geritol time. Maybe if she just calculates the time + energy quotient to put on some damned shoes. She’s made it so far to dressing. Well, almost. She’s still in suitable clothes from what she slept in. At least she put on a bra this morning.
Nap time at noon; resistance is never a foregone conclusion.
The day will have to wait.
I call it apathy.
Yet each evening, after nourishment, the world quietly returned.
The laundry remained. The obligations remained.
Only the heaviness departed.
Perhaps indifference was never the culprit.
Perhaps the body was simply asking to be consulted before being commanded.