I want to cry. But my pride and anger protest the pain relief. I manage a few fresh tears along my waterline, and no more. It’s a tough week. The only place I feel comfortable is in the bathroom, where I can close the door, hide, pretend. With the water crisis (in Cape Town), I can’t spend much time there. I must make a note to one day have an en-suite large enough for a window seat and side table. Large enough for escape.
A friend calls and we talk about nothing and everything. I want to tell her that I’m tired, tired of strength and tired of weakness. Instead, I remain politically correct about my plight and revel in her voice, in her fingers, fingers that decided to dial my number, fingers that told me to pick up the phone. I laugh, I question, I listen, I share in and take from, her stories, her comfort.
I gather three pillows and a blanket and create for myself a fortress. Because even though my bed is soft, there is something soothing about the hard, level, floor. Perhaps, this is because the only place to go when you are down (there), is up.