Woman Easing Into Repose

A table scape from Makea’s home picturing pink tulips in a silver pitcher and a bowl of oranges atop a white cloth.

By. Makea King

Week One.

You wake up. It’s morning. It’s a pretty morning. You yawn and stretch. You roll over in bed and pick up your phone. It’s 7:30 am. It’s a Friday. It’s sunny outside. Today is your birthday. You’re 36. You remember you’re off today. Whatever being “off” means right now. You have a virtual meeting at 11 am. Doesn’t quite make sense to not log in to the meeting since you’re home. Hell, everyone is home. You can always take “off” after the meeting. The champagne can wait. You’re 36 now. Sacrifices must be made.

Week Two.

You wake up early. The voice of David Green updates you on the devastation that occurred while you fitfully slept. You sit at the kitchen counter with your laptop, stretching the limit of how many browser tabs you can have open at once. You listen to NPR updates playing from the kitchen radio while reading news articles in between work emails and virtual meetings. You drown yourself in Coronavirus facts because knowledge is how you attempt to gain control. The more you know, you know?

You cry while watching the evening news. You worry constantly about your mom working in a nursing home. Your younger brother delivering medical supplies. Your aunt fulfilling orders at a distribution center. It gets harder to wake up and keep your schedule. You lose a whole day zoning out in front of your laptop instead of writing the paper that’s due for your graduate degree program.

Week Three.

You wake up restless. It’s a sunny day. The sun streaming through your mini blinds is quite beautiful. You yawn and stretch. Decide to do a few yoga poses. Downward dog. Chaturanga. Upward-facing dog. You get the idea. It’s time to get out. You dress and grab your iPod. Your cat meows loudly while sitting in front of her nearly full bowl of food. You ignore her. You sit to put your sneakers on and your other cat comes to tempt you with an exposed belly. You do not fall for this trick. The cats are devious this morning. It’s going to be a good day.

You press play and Dua Lipa’s husky voice fills your head. Your route is automatic now. Your feet propel you forward in pace to the drum beats reverberating in your earbuds. You don’t see too many people out today. Until. Until the man hauling his recycling container walks down his front steps. You push your shoulders back as you eye the items in his container. Not likely single. You smile anyway. He does not. As you near, he stays on the grass waiting for you to pass. You wonder if he’s checking out your ass. You have a great ass. The breeze shifts and you catch a whiff of cologne? Masculine body wash? Something deep inside you clenches and makes you catch your breath. How long has it been? You start a mental calculation as you turn the corner. The wind shifts and you realize it’s someone’s laundry day. Alanis comes on your iPod. You prepare for the incline.

Week Four.

You wake up, much later than you thought you would. You can already hear the tiny voices of the neighbor’s kids. And the other neighbor’s kids. Their high pitch squeals and effervescent laughter makes you smile into your pillow. Your sweet, overpriced pillow that you ordered from Amazon because you have neck problems now. You get up and stretch. Count the pops and pulls that release in your body as you descend into a forward bend. You rise up and wince. Namaste.

Your walk is filled with faces. New discoveries of the people who live behind the painted doors on the block. You take an afternoon break from NPR and put your Spotify subscription to use. Music buoys you as everything becomes too overwhelming. You feel flighty and ache to use your hands. You rearrange and reorganize. You dust. Dust! You pull out recipes from cookbooks you had forgotten you purchased. You stand over the stove. Smells simmering beneath you. Your wine glass is full and hearty. The Italian market has become your favorite escape. Today the store clerks sang in Italian behind the counter. You blushed behind your face mask.

You sit at the table and use linens with dinner. You light the candles and turn on the vintage lamp in the corner. You sip your wine and say a prayer of thanks. You will count your blessings tonight. Right after you take your Zoloft.

Makea is pictured wearing a black and white striped short sleeve shirt, a half closed mouth smile, dark smiling eyes, and a green cloth wrapped and knotted around her hair.

Makea King lives in Baltimore and is attempting to finish her MLIS degree with her sanity. She currently works in higher education and is looking forward to being a snarky librarian who hosts dinner parties for her close friends. When not photographing her cats, she journals regularly and updates a Google Drive folder with short stories, essays, and poems. She can be seen posting frequently on Instagram (@the_witty_maven) and occasionally retweeting on Twitter (@the_witty_maven).