the wee sma's

First thing in the morning.  When the sun is tickling the horizon, that's when it happens.  Every morning.  Butterflies the size of sumo wrestlers leap into my stomach and start doing the Macarena.  I instantly get the sensation that I have forgotten to write an English paper due that day and then I remember.

I'm moving.

My mind kicks into high gear with the veracity of the sumo wrestling butterflies, making endless lists of things for me to remember and to do.  And then?  Then I count off days and plot out my list accordingly.  At first, I slept peacefully with a house full of family and a cleared out storage unit.  Then the family left, and the moving truck came, and I just feel like vomiting the nerves come on so strong.

An uncanny rain settled over Florida this morning, fooling me visually about the time of day.  But the butterflies were not so easily deceived by the lack of pink light in the eastern sky.  They got to dancing harder than ever refusing to let me sleep.  A somber jig about phone calls to friends and family still not made kept them busy.  There were the gifts to mail, that haven't been, and they topped it off with a requiem entitled, "Tonight Is My Last Night at Home."

Mean butterflies.