Presence
My chest is over-tight, wound round and under in pretzel knots beneath the un-done day. My posture wants a change: fuller breaths are drawn looking up. So breathe in full. The air smells like — nothing. But maybe everything. Maybe it’s the gray, dying daisies on the table, the dust atop the noisy clock, the lived-in-ness of the room its ticking fills insisting upon my sense gentle waftings of home: a scent so comfortable, familiar, friendly I almost miss the overwhelming love of it all.
–Tyler Rogness
