Trying To Read The Signs

It seems like these days my whole world is hard to decipher. Literally, I can’t hardly make out street signs anymore. I guess it’s time to see the eye doctor again. Of course, as often as my regular doctor dropped some variety of “at your age” I’m not too keen to go see my Doctor Payne. (I’m not making that up, btw.) Last time I was there he brought up “readers” — this aging thing isn’t for sissies, I tell ya.

I’m actually fairly chill about needing reading glasses because it’s just part of life. The other signs that are so hard to read, on the other hand, are making me far from chill.

Signs like, is Middlest’s fever a sign of something really wrong, or is this just a bad cold? (This is the child who is never sick but has come down with scarlet fever.)

Is the struggle to add words to my new story a sign that I should just scrap that idea?

Is my perpetual struggle to keep my emotional pendulum from wildly swinging a sign that I need to go back on anti-depressants?

Is the fact that the two cats are sleeping on Biggest’s bed a sign that someday they might not hate each other?

Is the fact that I can’t touch my toes anymore without it hurting a sign that I might need to be a wee bit more flexible?

So many signs. They are everywhere and yet I feel like my ability to clearly read them is fading fast. Like no matter how much I squint, ensuring these lines between my eyebrows become permanent reminders of my struggle, I will still not quite be able to read them.

And then, of course, is the questioning. Am I really seeing things as they are, or is my mind trying to fill in the blanks? Trying to create order out of the squiggled lines? What am I doing anymore?

This is my Monday. A day filled with news of dead women and my child sick on the couch. And me, looking into the bottom of my coffee cup and wondering what those swirling grounds might possibly mean besides I’m out of coffee.

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