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What I pick is me
I like the lines on my forehead
“And meanwhile time goes about its immemorial work of making everyone look and feel like shit.”
I put our knives and scissors and household medicine in my closet because my child is sad and anxious, overwhelmed by racing thoughts and feelings so big they seem like permanent fixtures.
And I want to pass on the tiny bit of certainty I’ve gained, a shred of knowledge cocooned in my heart: that you live through it. All of it, even the hardest parts. And, once you live through it, you’ll probably be glad you did.
I am alive and somewhere in the woods there is moss creeping slowly over the roots of an oak tree.
I am alive and somewhere there is someone laboring over words, pushing thoughts together, arranging and polishing awkward sentences, writing a book I will get to read.
I am alive and every morning I get to stretch my legs and roll my hips and swing my arms and feel myself aging and complain about it.
I am alive and drunk on simple pleasures. Painted fingernails, snow on branches, a hot bath, music, a good pen, when the raindrop I picked wins the race down the window.
What a magnificently short time we have to be alive. The world bursts with everything that scares us and thrills us. Even boredom is a sensation.
Mushrooms appear overnight. The tree doesn’t seem to move but it gets taller. All kinds of growth are beautiful.
I am good at picking.
I picked the winning raindrop.
I pick being alive, I choose myself. I looked in the mirror last night and decided to admire my own face.
After all, why not?