transitions

she routinely mixes
strawberry and peach instant oatmeal in a bowl of milk.
she likes the way the flavors mix in her mouth when they are
cooked together and satisfyingly
mushy.
the day is wide
and open and empty before her,
waiting to be filled,
but it fills her with dread.
she rocks back and forth in her chair,
eating her oatmeal and staving off thoughts.
her breakfast dries out her mouth but still
she sits,
paralyzed by the possibilities of the day and unsure which to indulge.

she is alone without the grumbles of kids flooding into her classroom at the start of the day.
it is too quiet without cheerful good mornings in the teacher's lounge,
and weekend updates over coffee the color of milk chocolate.
she is too still,
used to pacing between rows of desks and back and forth from classroom to copier.
she misses the company of students,
the conversation of colleagues,
the purposefulness of meetings,
the need to write and copy and type and plan and organize and lecture.

the smell of home is trash that needs emptying, dishes that need loading,
clothes that need washing.
she can't miss the dirt of the un-vacuumed floor and the un-mopped bathroom tile.
the sound of home is whatever happens to seep through the walls from the outside world;
the apartment creaks with emptiness, save herself.
the liberty of laziness makes her feel guilty.
the liberty of busy-ness makes her feel tired.

she is a teacher off for the summer.