Small White Pill

by Linda Simoni-Wastila

The gentle cooing of a mourning dove signals the dawn; I waken, hear the whir of highway traffic and, more distant, the lonesome wail of a train. The sky radiates a softer black, the ashen sheen it takes on just before the sun inches over the curve of the world. Somewhere, someone moans, and the night workers shush and rustle, prepare for the next group of caretakers. These are the only sounds; my mind is quiet; there is no noise, no morbid, florid thoughts, no whooshing or thrumming or humming, no lingering nightmares or images or memories. Normal? Is this what normal feels like?

6S

Linda Simoni-Wastila, by day, is an ivory-tower type who plays with big numbers and fancy statistics. When dusk falls, she powers up the other side of her brain and catharses words. Between revisions of "Brighter than Bright," a novel about love, insanity, and their improbable intersection, she blogs and strives to pen the perfect haiku.