by Angela Townsend
I wake overwhelmed more often than not. This is no fault of the mornings. They are merciful, predictable, tumbled smooth by underground rapids. I need them to be the same, or my electrons will lose rhythm and fly loose into the night.
The list is all rubber bullet points, buoyant and brief. Reassure cats. Say Lord’s Prayer. Thyroid medicine. Feed cats. Wash. Brush. Plead with bangs. Surrender. Scoop litter. Dress. Breathe. Email. Wash teacup. Reassure cats. Praise the Mercy for coffee. Surrender.
The world must be remade every morning, but I am made of dandelions. No matter how many times I hit good soil, I will blow weedy and frizzy tomorrow. It all feels enormous. I cannot handle it, until I do. The cats and the Mercy laugh. I laugh. I look in the mirror and remind myself to research headbands.
It is a fine thing to wake overwhelmed more often than not. It is entirely the fault of the mornings. They are fat caterpillars that undulate like cosmic disco larva. They are rude and proud and remember the beat.
The provisions are ludicrous, an embarrassment of gems. I have been looking at my cats’ shaggy pantaloons for years, yet I thrill again. They are Little Lords Faunteroy in nutmeg stripes. Spearmint Colgate makes my teeth smile at each other. My apartment is as pink as ballet. The water is as warm as I decree. This is the coffee that the Lord has made. My mother exists.
The world is remade every morning, and I wonder how anyone gets through the first hour without falling down ten times. I toddle through starry sameness. I will be excited tomorrow. I cannot handle it. The saints and angels laugh. I laugh. I finger the knots in my old desk and remind myself to touch more trees.
My mother became a psychologist when I was thirteen. She tells me I have been blessed and “tasked” with a busy brain. My mother will not use the word “cursed.” That is not what words or mornings are for.
I was the child who worried about the man sleeping in front of the pizza parlor. I also worried I might sleepwalk into the kitchen and drink Pine-Sol. I praised the Lord of polliwogs and gingersnaps but required a poster declaring “There Is Nothing God Cannot Handle Today!” over my amnesia.
A morning will never be less than too much for me. It has been hijacked with yeast. It only knows the word “yes.” It will double in size tomorrow.
Angela Townsend works for a cat sanctuary, where she bears witness to mercy for all beings. She is a multiple Pushcart Prize nominee, and her work appears or is forthcoming in Arts & Letters, Chautauqua, Pleiades, SmokeLong, and West Trade Review, among others. She graduated from Princeton Seminary and Vassar.