The afternoon sun's bright, warm rays splash my bed from approximately 3:30pm - 5pm. I swim there and float in my afternoon nap.
When I was in fourth grade, my teacher set up a pen pal system between students and (seemingly) random people from all over the country. My pen pals were a retired couple, a man and a woman from Texas, who drove tractor trailers around the country. Their letters described the cornfields in Iowa, the Oregon coast, diners. In my letters, I told them about picking apples, my guinea pigs and my tornado science project. You know, I said, the one where you fill one two-liter bottle of soda with water, tape a second bottle on top, flip it over and observe the tornado of water moving down. We've seen tornadoes in Oklahoma, she wrote back. Big ones. We try to steer away from 'em.
Many of my addresses here in New York have contained the number two. I wonder if these are twos of some kind.
I've recently discovered how to find sleep on redeyes. When I get that ache -- the one in the middle of my thighs that not-so-subtly complains to me, "Hey, you should be in a bed and not in seat 28C" -- I thank it. Sweetly. Over and over. Thank you, ache. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
There are three plants on the windowsill next to my bed: a Shefflera, a Christmas cactus and a Jade plant. I don't water them enough. Instead, they overdose on air and sunlight, craning their needy necks to the windows in search anything else they might absorb from the outside world.