Friday morning, half-awake

We find ways, or look for ways.

When the creaking of a door reminds us of someone leaving, of someone arriving, of a door opening for memories to come in, or go out of; when a half-open closet brings to mind a messed up life, or a recently-concluded fight; when an indentation on a pillow intimates a sleepless night, or sleepless nights, of dried tears from those sleepless nights.

We look for an open window to look out of, to breathe through, then look up and mumble a prayer for a swirl of wind to whisk the despondency away.