Tight

It’s all in my shoulders. Balled up. Tight. It could be the end of winter. The ache for warm weather. Fishing. Days at the beach. It could be the robins yesterday morning. Their sweet noise waking me just in time to see the first bit of warm light—finally—breaking through the curtains onto S.B., my pretty wife. And how all I wanted was to stay there with her. Run my fingers through her wild hair. Do those things we used to do when we had more time. Before we were WE. When kids wouldn’t walk in. When we didn’t need as much sleep. Yes, it’s probably that. And everything. This box-wine middle-class life of making ends meet so that I raise my kids—not left, not right but with awareness and appreciation so they are thinking. Believing. Knowing when to stand down. When to fight. Like me. Tonight. Wrestling with words. The rain. Not selling as many books as I should. Not writing as much as I could. Because there is debt and deadlines and food and clothes and a leaky water heater and a broken dishwasher and old, single-pane windows breathing cold air. Memories I want to forget. Reminding me that there’s a lot out there. That people have less. That I have more. And that I’ve got it too good to worry about the weight. On my shoulders. Balled up. Tight. Especially now. At the end of winter. With warm weather coming through. The fish ripping upstream. And the light—just right in the morning—breaking through. ~ K.J.