I crush my latte cup in one hand. This is stupid. I don’t know what my dreams are. How does a person know what their dreams are after forty? Is having dreams even appropriate once you start using night cream and getting yearly mammograms?
I move languidly from chore to chore, wiping peanut butter off of surfaces, running back and forth to the store for the items that disappear faster when everyone is home, losing track of hours and days and weeks. Routines govern my life, and in the transition from spring to summer, all routines are upended.