I’m home now. Jackson-home, not New Iberia-home. I’m on my couch in my jammies, feet tucked under my cozy flannel blanket, laptop in my lap. I’m working–checking email, looking at materials for tomorrow’s classes, flipping through an essay collection that came while I was away. I’m trying to get my mind off of all the things that can occupy it on a long, lonely interstate drive: family troubles, work stresses, questions about my future.
I’m struggling against sleep, truth be told. I’m exhausted from all of it, the work that often happens on this couch, under this blanket. This is why I work on the couch. It’s a soft place to land when the hard edges of the day need smoothing.
