I Wish I Were In a Glass Jar on Your Lap.

Bloodshot eyes and abandoned phone calls. Hello morning. I turned The Weepies on because ironically, they put me in a nice mood. Haeleigh was a mess on the floor in the parlor, covered in feathers and sleepy eyes. Kettle to stove. Coffee to french press. Mug to mouth. Routine. Words cluttered the side of the fridge, and a driving compulsion urged me to rearrange them. The ending line of my magnetic poetry read: "Because tomorrow will be full," and I believed it. I had a colossal amount of faith in those little magnets. My third cup of coffee, morning light reflecting off old snow. My cell phone signaled "Low battery," and a dark realization came over me. My mood wrapped up in those little words, drained of all fortitude. Out the window, mountain peaks floated in thick fog, the fire escape looked so inviting. Haeleigh and I walked to the bakery. Lemon squares and fruit tarts, my own way to recharge. "The dishes have no sponge to clean them. The tea has no honey to sweeten. The cushion on the left is left unflattened. The door is unlocked in case you arrive." This is all too much. We drove home kissing yellow lights, with Dagne in a glass jar on my lap, and I pleaded for the sight of Blue Moon Tea. Shortly, love. I will come soon.