cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
I lie still, my back pressed into the blankets on the summer sheets, arms clasped across my chest, eyes closed. I cross my feet. Sinking, sinking, not drowning. Gravity compels the air to form to my body, enclosing me, swaddling me. As my body floats, the bed disappears.
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I hear the pattering of feet and my seven-year-old son bursts through the bedroom door. I squirm, anticipating the end of my slumber. Every morning, shortly after I hit my alarm at 5 a.m., he opens the door, declaring, “Mom, are you still here?” I roll over. The door is shut. Luis is on his…
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