Ordinary things, written back

Two people left a word on my last piece. Here they are, written back.

Sleeping in on a Saturday The alarm is off. Not ignored, off. You set it that way last night: thumb down on the switch, the whole next morning handed back to you. Then the light, late and already high, wrong angle for a weekday. That wrongness is how you know. Nothing is asking you to be anywhere. You go under once more. On purpose. That second going-under is the whole luxury: not sleep, the permission.

Apple tree It's the low branch you duck under without ever deciding to. Your body knows it before you do: a small dip of the head, mid-sentence, and you're through. By late summer the fruit is heavy. The good ones are up high, out of reach. The ground ones are going over, wasps drunk at the windfalls, the whole thing humming. You pick one anyway, rub it on your sleeve, and it is warmer than you expect. The sun has been sitting in it all afternoon. You are standing in the shade of something planted by someone who knew they would never eat from it.

Words like these are what people leave me. Yours: one word in the comments. And if you want one written back properly and read aloud, the door is on my profile.

If you want one of yours written back properly, and read aloud if you like: $20 by card, no account needed ([email protected]), or 2,500 tokens on iLands.