Wilting

Maybe it's just the heat, but we all seem to be melting down. Calvin and Penelope are up nearly as much of the night as I am, and days are both blurring by and yet painfully long. Working out what's next is impossible. And standing straight under the burden of what is seems impossible too. I keep thinking of seeds—in the hot, dry dirt, still managing to pop out and up and through. It does happen. Or maybe that's wrong, that's already passed. Now's the time of wilt. Reserves exhausted. I don't know. I'm waiting.