the clouds of humidity

And there are days and nights when I think how awful the humidity is as it makes my hair frizzy and big; then I get lost in my thoughts as I look at my youngest daughter’s hair with its ends aim fully dropping straight to her neck and shoulders while the rest of it looking kept and swept and light and may be to some, a bit dull (but it is during these times when dull is good compared to that bouncy and full of life.)

It’s mighty Friday, I mutter in silence, looking at the clock with the little one lying on her back on my legs as I sat on the sofa that badly needed re–upholstery and resting my legs on a backless, sectional cushioned chair. I’m sure she must’ve thought it was Saturday and I’m sure I know we had to have improvements on those tactics we use in luring her somewhere where I am out of sight and out of her mind.

The older daughter is also in the living room. She’s independent and knows what she wants. First, I see her drinking a bottle of Yakult and then another. Then, I see her eat hotdog; and finally, because she can not cook just yet, ask for scrambled eggs for she says she’s still starving. Aren’t we all? Starving for clarity that somewhat, somehow in every little or major thing we do, we work, we plan, and we live for, we are as right as the weather, good or bad: making brides beam more on her garden wedding or trampling on weak trees and bushes because they get in the way.

Then I find myself in the bathroom, lighting a candle like that of someone lighting at the far side of a church’s sanctuary, swaying her hand to catch the smoke from the candle to envelope her and all, except that I am hoping to be enveloped by the sweet smell of the heated oil in water. But as I sway, I make a wish, a prayer that in every day, regardless of whether I am sure, I am. I am and will return because I am. I am.