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  • Writer's pictureJeff South

Blogtober 2021: Bread


A night of fitful of sleep has left me slogging through the opening moments of the morning. Walking from my bed to the shower was like wading through knee-deep molasses. The post-shower walk from the bedroom to the kitchen was smoother, more like ankle deep molasses. Still, it was a slog. Everything moves frame by frame. The way I pour the orange-pineapple juice into the glass. The way I drag the strawberry jelly across the toast. I stare straight ahead and mindlessly scroll Facebook.

"You okay?" my wife asks. "You're zoning out."

"Not great sleep last night." I sip my juice and nibble my toast.

"You snored all night so you must've slept at least a little."

"I don't feel rested. I feel..." No word adequately describes my current state so I describe with annoyed facial expressions.

"Maybe take Daisy on a walk. Get some air."

I again offer no words, just I-don-t-wanna-that-sounds-awful full body shrugs. Her raised eyebrows tell me her empathy extends only so far and maybe I should consider getting over myself. She is right, but that's not something I'm ready to admit in the moment. A quick peck on the lips from her and she is out the door with a hope that I feel better soon.


I don't feel better. The clock on the laptop says 8:04 a.m and all I can think about is why this day had to start and why has it not ended already. Physically my body aches but not in that way one associates with the flu. No fever. No chills. A heavy malaise drapes over me like the world's most uncomfortable blanket. If this is a case of the blues, then it is surely the darkest shade and I can't pinpoint why I have them at all. The home office is stifling and small, oppressive even. Maybe that walk is what I need. A glance at my clock again.

12:34 p.m.

Did four and half hours just pass in the snap of a finger?

Yes. Get up. Move. Walk. Get over yourself. You have no reason to feel this shitty.

I stand and ask Daisy if she wants to take a walk, a question that normally sends her into fits of excitement. She sits at her station in office doorway looking down the hall, unaffected by me.

I hear the whisper again. The one from a couple of days ago. Daisy whines a bit and I move and stand beside. Together we peer down the hall toward wherever, whoever, or whatever is the source of the whisper. It comes again.

"There are no good things."

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