|Close-up of a tree, Los Angeles|
Yesterday, the unbloggable happened and then I worked around a teenage poopy diaper and an over-dramatic youngest child who has a cold not the flu. Sophie had a seizure at the table right at the moment that I was going to feed her an early dinner because she had to come along with me to flag football, so I dragged her out to the car instead where she recovered on cream colored leather, the sun slanting through water spots on the glass. I sat in the car at the park and leaned my head back, my eyes closed, pounding. It's too much, I thought to myself. It's too much.
What's it all about? What are days for? The poet Philip Larkin in his poem titled Days, asks the question and says that days are where we live. Solving it brings the priest and the doctor/in their long coats/Running over the fields.