Some Life Things
In the morning, my husband makes the bed and opens the blinds. A small thing but it matters.
Everything matters really. Those small movements and gestures throughout the day that can save a life.
Making my bed once saved my life. Well, that is an overstatement, which I am prone to do, but when I was depressed my doctor once told me that if I had to do one thing a day, it was to make my bed. Perhaps it was a ploy to get me out of the damn thing, but the feeling was that at the end of the day I could say, 'At least I made my bed.'
Now I look at the bed and say, 'Thank you.' If I get to the end of the day, at least one thing has been done for me.
On Mother's Day he made me breakfast in the morning, and in the evening I sat on the rug and he brushed my hair. Have you forgotten how lovely it is to have someone brush your hair? That is love.
I'm tangled, like the curls of my love's hair;
Like a snake encharmed, I turn and twist.
What is this knot, this dizzy maze, this snare?
All I know: if I'm not tangled here, I don't exist.