Up on top of an old ladder,
When the slow-motion reality struck,
The ladder was doing the splits,
I rode it down, fearing my tender ankle,
Struck the cement floor with a million thoughts pouring through me,
The loudest was the sound of my wrist.
Pain is a sweet word for 'hurts like hell',
Broken wrist,
cast up to my shoulder,
Eight weeks.
Though my ankle survived unscratched.
And the thought of HOW am I going to open my online shop?
And help Sacha unpack?
And take photos of the upcoming wedding?
And realizing the impact of wall papering at midnight on a ladder.
A change of plans is definite, a change of clothes interesting, sleep impossible.
Typing with one hand slow going.
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