The Girl Who Learned To Kneel

She sits in her apartment staring out at the boxes and the various piles destined for boxes. She considers filling one, but changes her mind. That would require getting up off of the lazy boy and making decisions about the piles. She’s in no state to decide anything. She’s sick. And listless. And missing the order that was once their ensemble of possessions. Stuff is so cumbersome. Especially during a move. Couldn’t they just start over? Start fresh. Except for her Ginger Ciao and maybe that really good jar of raw honey. Everything else is wearing on her. She hears the baby in the other room. Unlike the apple box, the tiny human will not be ignored. The little human doesn’t want to nap. She wants to play. Fine. They’ll play ‘Mama having a bath to soothe her aching muscles while baby sits like an angel in her car seat looking on, cooing on command.’ They’ve played once already today. It was moderately successful. She heaves her body up off the chair, but immediately sits back down to check her email. Out of habit. She’s inhabiting one of the lesser quadrants. You know, not urgent and not important…Steven Covey. Never mind. There’s one message: ‘You making anything to eat? Pizza, chocolate, rice pudding, custard, grilled cheese, apple sauce, guacamole, love in a box…’ She’ll get right on that. Love in a box.