Waking In The Dark

I pulled out the Writer's Block Lela gave me for my birthday. It's a small, block-shaped book of writing prompts. I couldn't find a single one that sparked today, but rather pieces of different ones. So this is based on a combination of prompts, because that's how I roll. It really does happen to be how my days start!


Loud talking slices through the sleepy fog. My brain jolts and struggles to clear, to focus on the sound.

Radio.

Without opening my eyes, I reach over feeling everything in my fingers’ path until they find the button, and then press snooze.

I lay still for a moment, letting my brain assess and reassess. What time is it? What day is it? What’s today’s schedule? What’s first on the list? Shower? Make K’s lunch? I breathe deeply, letting the reality of a new day settle in.

Eyes still closed, I reach down and release the velcro straps on the contraption that holds my foot at a right angle to my leg while I sleep. I try to do it quietly each morning, but there’s not much I can do with velcro. Once relieved of it’s nightly prison, I use the fingers of both hands to gently massage the bottom of my foot, slowly working toward my heel, slowly increasing pressure and stretch, encouraging blood to circulate there. Finally, I pull my toes up, stretching both my foot and calf. This ritual has become my normal, though I look forward to the day I no longer have to think about it. Plantar fasciitis is a bitch. And she has puppies.

I lay for another minute or two, enjoying the deep darkness and the warmth of my bed. Rolling to a sitting position, I grope in the dark for my sweatshirt on the end of the bed. The muscles in my low back complain with a ragged stab as they find their place in gravity. I feel along the neck of the sweatshirt, searching for the tag that will tell me inside from outside. Pulling it on, I use my toes to feel the floor for my slippers. I find a lump of the dog’s favorite toy, it’s fabric hardened by so many trips in the loving dog’s mouth. She deposits it on my side of the bed each night, a gift from her to me. Flicking it aside with my good foot, I slide my feet into the slippers and stand upright.

Testing out the first couple of steps, I'm afraid of the jab of pain that may be present in my heel. It’s mild today, barely noticeable, really. Still, I’m cautious as I make my way to the bathroom door to relieve my overfull bladder, reaching for the edge of the door frame to feel my way.

As I leave the bedroom, my eyes finally open all the way, I offer the dog the chance to come with me. I see her eyes glow in the darkness as she looks up at me from her bed, without lifting her head, as if to say, “No thanks, I’m warm and cozy right here.” She’ll remain there until my husband gets up. Must be nice. I close the door quietly and make my way down the darkened stairs, navigating by memory and feel, cautious that I haven’t missed one.

Reaching the kitchen, I take a deep breath and flip the switch. Light bathes the room in brightness, in reality, in today. Time to get to it.

***Ally
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