This morning I woke up alone, sunshine sneaking across my face on the breeze through the blinds. The emptiness of the house is palpable. The usual Elvish murmurings of Dylan waking in the next room are absent (he is with his grandparents).
It’s warm in my bed. Cozy. I was laying there a few minutes ago. Trying to sleep.
I’m here now. At my desk, pen in hand in the half-dark. Bed-headed and pillow-faced, attempting to excavate a seed of authenticity from the pile of debris that is the current state of my psyche.
I love birthdays. All that cake and attention. This Sunday I will be thirty-three and despite my excitement, I’ve been unable to escape the inevitable self-reflection that accompanies the passage of another year.