I leave the coffee shop at six p.m., pleading chores to do.  I have them, it’s true; but I spend the evening in a rocking chair.  Shooting pains have overtaken my legs.  The damned viruses sear through my blood.  My breath grows raspy.  

I vegetate. The dog wanders through the house.  If she knew my language, or I knew hers, we might converse but she just casts baleful looks in my direction once in a while.    I think she’s suspicious.  I rarely linger.  Other than dishes, and the simple frying of a pan of tofu, I haven’t done a thing for hours.

I force myself to stay on the first floor til ten, then gather the little necessities of night for the climb to my cabin hideaway.  Piles of untended laundry, a stack of books, and scattered shoes greet me.  I close my eyes, pausing on the top step.  What became of the energy with which I greeted the morning, thirteen hours ago?  I lower myself into the chair and stare out the darkened window.  A rumble of thunder ripples through the outside air.  I cannot see my neighbor’s house.  I cannot see anything.

A song flows from my five dollar speakers.   The glass knob on the downstairs door gleams in the glow of  the light fixture illuminated above it.  A smattering of applause follows the end of a song.  Night surrounds me.  My eyes fall on a cluster of random objects beside me: book, beads, measuring tape.  An angel watches from beside the lamp.  I can’t think how this odd assortment came to be here, like relics of too many days without direction.

It’s nearly tomorrow; almost the tenth day of the thirty-first month of My [Never-Ending] Year Without Complaining.  Daughter plays on the laptop, filling my space with that perfect blend of bitter and sweet.  I hold my breath.  I do not complain.  I wait for morning, turning up the volume to drown the sound of thunder.

Hear DAUGHTER’s tiny desk concert HERE.