Sometimes I wake up and there it is: the claw.
The claw is strongest on Sunday mornings.
It scratches at me from the inside, at that space in the middle of my rib cage.
It’s subtle at first. I stay in bed and try to relax for a bit. I read a chapter of a book, but the claw won’t let me settle.
When I get up, it scratches more insistently.
I go outside to do my chores. I let my chickens out, and I look at them but I don’t get lost in the looking.
I feed my dog. I brush her. I tell her how beautiful she is, but my love for her just hangs out beside the claw.
I move through my day. I get going on a project. I let the claw hang out and scratch, scratch, scratch. All right, I say. All right.
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About a week ago, at nighttime, I got a little stoned. Just a little. I found myself standing by the fire eating white cheddar Hippeas one at a time and drinking grapefruit soda. The crunch, the saltiness, the fizz.
I found myself doing a happy dance I do sometimes when everyone but me is in bed and the house is quiet and I’m eating.
It’s my inner four-year-old coming to visit me. I hadn’t seen her in a while. Sometimes she visits me daily, but she’d been gone long enough I’d forgotten to miss her.
Suddenly I understood something about winter.
The claw is always there. My four-year-old is always there.
The seasons move through me and I don’t control them. All I can do is move with them.
I love this - your four year old self. I too had a recent visitation. My five year old self. And what a relief. She’s moved in to stay, at least for a while.