Don't read if you're looking for inspiration

I cracked my eyes open this morning and wanted to close them. Wondered how and why and when. Felt the weight of everything and then some more. Heard the hum of Sophie in her room, the muted cartoon in the living room, the door click shut as The Husband left. Kept my face down in the pillow and said some kind of prayer in my head. Thought of the poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay about spring, a poem that I just read because it's April and April is Poetry Month and it's also the cruelest month, according to Eliot, but Millay tops him with this:

Spring
To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death
But what does that signify?
Not only under the ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

Later, much later, after a blue sky day and army men planted all over the sidewalk, I read a few lines of Father Joe in the bathroom, in the late afternoon and Sophie was in her room and she'd had no seizures all week and I was thinking well, I was thinking, and when I left the bathroom and went to her room, there she lay, her head draped over the toy basket, her arms splayed out and eyes rotated toward the wet that came pooling from her mouth and it was all ready over so I picked her up or dragged her the few steps to her bed and lay down next to her and felt, almost, nothing.