After the carrots.

I’ll do my taxes that I didn’t do after the carrots are washed and peeled and frozen. I’ll do them once I’ve vacuumed, the promise I’ve broken to myself for enough days that I’ve lost track. My stomach aches with words unspoken and memories cramming themselves into the spaces carved out for peace.

I’ll do it, them, all of it after.

Since I can remember I have been able to sit and do nothing for hours. Staring, thinking, praying, remembering. A nothing that overwhelms and calms and sorts out the mess. Five gallon bags of carrots from the Autumn, waiting to be peeled, to be used, to be remembered.

I’ll do it once the puppy goes a day without peeing on the rug. I’ll vacuum when my migraine is gone. Now that I don’t get them often, I can’t recall how I used to manage the pain. I want to undo. Reverse. Be someone who did the things.

Migraine. Carrots. Vacuum. Puppy. Taxes. Remembering.

I’ll do it, them, all of it, after.