I am so frustrated with you. I need to breathe; I cannot breathe when I'm flat on my back. I cannot breathe well without support under my arms when I'm sitting up. You have to learn how to do my changing routine without prompting from me. I beg you to help me to breathe. I do not hate you and I do not think you are an asshole. I just cannot bear up under the stress of fighting for air.
Orange, gold, rust, burnt sienna, ochre, raw umber; the riot of fall colors, in the trees and at our booted feet; a drive in the countryside; the taste of hot apple cider on my lips; the satisfaction of a truckload of firewood we gathered and cut ourselves; elk herds on the move; hearty stews, savory soup, crusty whole-grain bread, pumpkin and gingerbread spice lattes; these are the memories I tap into the most this time of year. Cabela's fliers in the mailbox; Carhart's camo-clad hunters swarm outlying areas; mushroom garthering; huckleberry picking; logger burgers; forest service roads; cheese sandwiches on the woodstove; warm quilts, cool sheets, and flannel nightgowns; cold butt, warm heart. Immensely grateful to have the well of memories to draw upon.
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