"You're Worship-able"

I pad up the front steps in the sunlight. With no make-up, sandals poking around gray-socked feet, and a day-old jeans-and-T-shirt combo, I look and feel so much more like a worshipper, not the Worshippee.

I sigh and half-smile, pull open the screen door as the breeze lifts my hair, recently shampooed and slept-on straight. The smirk in the sky pokes my heart with a grin, and I vow that it should be this pleasant in February every winter.

It's easier to not face the problem of this Funeral Service. But its thundercloud of worries is only lifted for a moment before it settles back down around me, unable to be budged, or even shoved just a little.

I step across the threshold and shut the door to my shadowy house. The dropped temperature makes me shiver.

I am a small, hard soul being flung alone into a churning, foreign universe of colors.

And I can feel it.

I can feel every second of it.

breathe.