The day is half gone by the time I’ve pried myself from between the couch cushions, eyes glazed from a second-rate police drama marathon, a hopelessly mangled rat’s nest protruding from the back of my head. Days like this used to be what I lived for. Days like this used to be an invitation to drag my entire bedspread down to the living-room sofa. Days like this meant “Tom and Jerry” and newspaper comics printed in color. Days like this meant eating popsicles until I felt ill. But then we got a new denim sofa, and Mom stopped buying the grape-flavored Tylenol that came in little chewable tablets, and cable television became a thing of the past.
It feels like something even bigger has changed.
The dormancy of my muscles makes them heavy, each ounce of potential sticking and hardening and weighing down on my bones like drying cement.
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