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When I woke my mouth was kissing the pink stuffed blanket. And I was alone with the grey sky. My sister sleeps softly over there. Under her new red comforter. Under her blond crown of hair, that she finds her brush in later. The sky that I see out my window is all pink now. Kitchen pots clanking, the furnace quietly grinds underneath. I dreamt the most boring dream last night. And I’ll dream it again tomorrow.

A friend who I watched grow texts me, “hey, how’s it going? Give me a call. . . Kelly.” I look again, the sky is pale blue, with an underbelly of murky yellow and orange. I laid back and thought about time and rationed minutes. And folded cracked hands that are still in my bed, and on the floor and down the stairs making breakfast. The old wood moaned at my heavy legs, my crawling feet. I made oatmeal and didn’t feel like throwing up.

“Morning,” my dad said timid today. I turned halfway to see his eyes. “Morning.” He never says morning anymore. The quiet is sacred when no one is yelling. When it’s you and the shine of the wooden table and the old crab apple trees in the backyard swaying noiselessly behind the windows like eyes of the home.

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