I was so soundly asleep that Ritchie practically had to jump on the bed to wake me up. Comatose is probably the right word. I’ve been tired, sleepiness gnawing away at me all day.
Monday is chore night. We have to go to shopping for the Barnes’, cash in several carts of bottles and cans at Walmart, and go pickup bread from Panera. I never want to go, but I always have fun anyway. The drive should wake me up.
Mark Foster’s falsetto cuts through the engine noise and I turn the radio all the way up. I love this song. Usually I’m too embarrassed to sing, but not tonight, not with the music so loud it drowns out all my off key notes and wobbly vocals. Shrieking, lungs piercing the night like a hawk screeching, soaring down ripping through pockets of air at a thousand miles an hour, I start to sing. Over dusty charcoal highways, only illuminated by our dim headlights, I sing and sing and sing. Never have I felt so alive.
