What respite looks like

Respite looks, for the first couple of days, like a reluctant walk to a rocky beach, a mussed bed behind you. It sounds like a nag, a whisper, a wheedle to put down the book, stop playing words with friends, go outside. It feels like a gray and heavy blanket, thrown over you with your troubles and despair, your marriage and your children, your bitter edge not sharp enough to poke through the weariness. You are naked, true, but heavy, your softness, irritable, folded over onto itself. That is the first two days of respite, maybe even the third, the spite. You know the rest. On the third, the fourth day, respite looks like a mussed bed around you, books, a computer, a binge of television drama, a gray day outside. It sounds like a lover, a whisper, a tendril of words to read that book first, and then this, then write, then climb back into bed and read that, close your eyes, listen to the birds for a moment, the drone of a saw, close your eyes, do that. It feels like hot water in a bathtub, perfumed with soap, not quite covering your bitter edge until you slide down further and let it. You are naked, true, but light, floating, your softness languor, amused. That is respite on the fourth day, the breath, the respir.