dry air

My head hurts this morning. My nose is irritated from the dry air. I get fleeting aches and pains in my knees or ankles– suddenly they’re there and just as suddenly gone. I’ve grown philosophical about it and ascribe it to growing older: these things will happen more and more.

I am listening to cars shush by outside over wet pavement and jet liner engines high above at this early hour, before 6 am. The wind makes a hollow sound around the corner of the building. The train rumbles by, sounding like it’s dragging chains. Chris’s rhythmic breathing comes from the bedroom, lulling me, luring me back to the warm bed with him and the dog. I stay up out in the lamp light, pushing myself to do the right thing, to write, unsure whether it really matters. Everyday I’m ashamed that I’m not doing something more substantive with my life.