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Weekly Contest #330
I wake up like I am being born—brimming with life, spent of my tears, and desperately fearing the unknown. Puppet doesn’t wake me up from the nightmares anymore. I’m not sure if it's because she’s getting deaf and can’t hear me crying from the foot of the bed or if the dreams have become such a staple in our routine that the old dog sleeps through them. It’s not her fault, and the sun wakes me up real early anyway. It’s hard to sleep late in a one-room cabin surrounded by windows. I used to groan and cover my eyes during the first couple of ...
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