1. Uninterrupted sleep. I sneak in to make sure she’s breathing.
  2. The 5:30 light on the back porch is so saturated with shadows it looks like Rembrandt dreamed it. I consider washing the kitchen window to see it better but decide I like the filter.
  3. My last words to him are critical. My intent is to improve, not deride, but that’s not what he hears. I see it in his shoulders as he heads down the steps. But I don’t apologize. I’m not really sure how to.
  4. She wakes up smiling and laughing like she hasn’t been a holy terror for five days. I don’t know if it’s the antibiotics, the full night of sleep, or straight up Jesus, but I’m thrilled. We both are.
  5. Groceries: A Play in Two Acts and Three Parts
  6. She wakes up screaming and thrashing like she hasn’t been happy all day. I see my own rage in her. The helpless frustration boiling over into thrashing to alleviate the pressure. I pray through tears for the curse to be broken in her.
  7. Processing. A root of dysfunction, an accusation that’s really a blessing, a massive swathe of cheap pork.
  8. I start feeling ill while watching TV again. Sometimes it’s nausea, sometimes a cold–tonight it’s earache. It’s as if my body stores the day’s stress and releases it all at once 22 minutes after I sit down for the night.
  9. More self-medicating. A pint of Oreo ice cream, four episodes of Nine-Nine.
  10. Weekend vibes.

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