That’s not the name of a book. I actually can’t right now tell you what I read last weekend. I started a book by a British writer, female, youngish I think, just last night, and the title has numbers in it, but…that’s all I got.
My head, it’s full. You know how with old radiators they got clunky with air sometimes and you had to let off some pressure by turning a knob? My head, it’s like that. It needs a knob I can turn to let off some pressure. It’s full of clunky air. Clunky hot air. Maybe I just need to go to bed earlier?
Or maybe I need to snuggle some cats.
Or maybe I need a field of blooming flowers.
Or a warm sunny rocking chair on the front porch.
Or a new pair of clogs.
Or good news from an old friend.
Or children who go to bed the first time I tell them to.
I wore no jacket this afternoon on the way home from work, when I picked up the boys, when I fetched the mail. It was glorious. I forget, every year, how weighed down I become by that heavy expanse of wool. How light I feel when I leave it behind.
I promise to return next week with pithy remarks about clever books. But for now, I think I need to watch TV. It’s just that kind of day.