Five fifty five a.m.

 

Waking at five fifty five a.m., she stays in bed for another hour. She tries to reassemble the jigsaw pieces of dreams. Even when a clear meaning about her struggles and triumphs emerges, she can see the cardboard endings and beginnings of her own wholeness. 

 

She can feel the images--not unlike thin chopped up photos peeling off of the cardboard of a thousand puzzle pieces-- to ultimately create a scene from childhood, too painful to see all at once. 

 

Staring out into space, she understands why at times when the world stresses become too much to absorb, she too slinks away, akin to the images peeling, fading from consciousness. All in a NY minute, she becomes numb to the pain and the joy. 

 

She floats in a one person boat-- only feeling the water buffeting her skin and bones. Somehow the buffeting of her emotions stays on an even keel.  She floats aimlessly on the open salt water, remembering to call home.