My legs are restless again.

 

Not enough to get out of bed. Not enough to call it pain. Just enough to keep sleep standing in the doorway, waiting for me to sort something out.

 

I lie there wondering what exactly I’m trying to shake off.

 

A memory

 

A version of the future that never arrived?

 

Someone else’s expectations?

 

The sting of a conversation that ended hours ago but somehow followed me beneath the blankets?

 

My legs bounce once. Then again.

 

Like a dog shaking rain from its coat.

 

Like a horse swatting flies.

 

Like some ancient instinct refusing to settle.

 

Maybe my body knows something my mind hasn’t caught up to yet.

 

Maybe there’s still a little grief caught in the joints.

 

A little fear tucked behind the knees.

 

A little hope pacing circles around the ankles.

 

The strange thing is that I rarely know what it is until much later.

 

Weeks from now I’ll realize what was weighing on me. What I was carrying. What I was trying so hard not to feel.

 

But tonight all I know is that something is moving through me.

 

And my legs, faithful little messengers that they are, seem determined to make sure it doesn’t stay there.

 

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