by Amanda Cleary Eastep
When my son was a young boy, he had a dream that he found me dead beneath a pile of dirty clothes.
He dreamed this during the divorce, and I can’t say I didn’t feel exactly like that—as if I were smothering and dying beneath a mounting pile of secrets and sins and everyday chores and child rearing that suddenly seemed to weigh ten times its weight in normal.
I never asked him the details of the dream. Did all the T-shirts I refused to turn right-side-out finally get their revenge? Were the lights separated from the darks? Was I clutching a dryer sheet in one cold hand and a very clean $5 bill in the other?
Sometimes, even when we aren’t going through a traumatic season, we can simply feel buried beneath the everyday.
