She lives an Anaconda lifestyle, taking big gulps, often
biting off more than she can chew. Unaware of her own needs. Her body has to
tell her when to stop.
After completing her 12-hour day shift, she stayed on for the 12-hour night shift.
Finally, home at 8 AM, there was only time to wash up quickly, zap some leftovers, and sit down on the couch with me for a few minutes.
Then her body told her that 24 hours was enough and flipped the switch, shutting her down.
I looked over at her silence.
A shrimp wrapped in a coat of thick linguine, fork-skewered, frozen in mid-air, hovering.
She was no longer of the conscious world.
I helped her into bed and said goodnight, but she was doing an Elvis impersonation, and had already left the building.
After completing her 12-hour day shift, she stayed on for the 12-hour night shift.
Finally, home at 8 AM, there was only time to wash up quickly, zap some leftovers, and sit down on the couch with me for a few minutes.
Then her body told her that 24 hours was enough and flipped the switch, shutting her down.
I looked over at her silence.
A shrimp wrapped in a coat of thick linguine, fork-skewered, frozen in mid-air, hovering.
She was no longer of the conscious world.
I helped her into bed and said goodnight, but she was doing an Elvis impersonation, and had already left the building.
No comments:
Post a Comment