Small, Good Things.
It’s five thirty in the morning and my hands are full of heavy blood. I’m going to have arthritis, I think—all that typing can’t be good for my fingers. I hold them above the radiator next to the socks I left here last night.
This is a harsh time of day but, warms socks and other small, good things can peel away the unpleasantries. Besides, you lose a lot of body heat through your feet so it’s important to have warm socks.
I open up the curtain and it’s very hot. In the steam and spray my hair falls down around my face. It’s grown long now, long enough that I can’t see anything but also long enough that I can’t quite bring myself to cut it. I run my fingers through, pull it aside and stare into the spigot.
This moment becomes a fifteen minute excuse—maybe thirty. One that wakes you with a kind of compassion few other things can offer. It doesn’t kid you about what’s coming but, allows you to linger even after the water stops running. lets you stand for a while, with your feet holding on to the warm ceramic floor.
And that heat goes away.
But it’s a small good thing.
