Ordinary Day

by Sheri Reed

If you walked through our front door right now, even though I know you never would, because you don't live here or even in this town and that would be kinda rude, you would see me hunched over in a ball with my forehead against the mattress. I would feel guilty and weird enough to explain that I like how it feels when all the blood rushes into my skull. The pressure seems to take off the pressure, you know, like meditation, like no pain no gain, like if you think your head hurts now, then come here and I'll give you something to really cry about. You would also see the laundry basket full of clean clothes, him cooking dinner for me — just a quick salad, don't worry — and the two of them playing and screaming and running room to room looking for me. The clock reads 5 o'clock, and you probably already want to go home. Or maybe you don't see anything out of the ordinary at all and decide to stay for a little bit of salad, which is really more than I could ever ask for in a situation that only exists in my head, which is still spinning even though it is pressed firmly against this mattress.


Sheri Reed lives and writes in Northern California. She blogs at happinest and takes pictures of pretty things every day.