Sunday

The dog is getting older and the white hairs on the black and the sad brown eyes and the husband and me the same old arguments why even bother hoping for something different and the neighbor making too much noise on a Sunday morning and Rugelah up in the middle of the might with wild insomnia me ready with the Benadryl because at this point I don't know what to do and then it all adds up to something like the mediocrity of life. Let's diagnose me maybe and say here is a woman with a history of depression or here is a woman with a history of anxiety or trauma or some such crap and then we could have a right field day with those terms but also we could just say that some days or many days have a particular mediocrity to them, particularly when the humor seems to have drained out, the sun shines through leaves and splatters onto the floor and it really doesn't matter one bit.