08.23.2002 - 9:16 a.m.

There is a strange and empty light that invades bedrooms, mornings, when it is finally and dreadfully 6:15. It is the same light on the front stoop when I look up at the clouds and sky, unable to tell which pale shapes are the objects, and which are the spaces between.

I am not really awake. I look down at my feet. They are the same feet I�ve always had, short toenails, hard, scratchy pads from a week of moving in these same open-toed sandals. They can get me to my car without conscious thought�they can negotiate the steps, turn, more steps, the concrete edge of the driveway, the mailbox at the end. They will get me to my car, and they will always bring me home.

I find myself wishing there were a pattern, a dance they could follow to bring everyone else home, too.

-stonebridge

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