‘Fall back’ felt like ‘fall down’ the day after I changed the clocks out here in Seattle. Especially in the Pacific Northwest, where dark seems darker and light seems harder won in November.
When I woke up yesterday I was instantly confused — I could hear the distant churn of commuters on Aurora but no birds, 4:30?
I had to pee which should have been about 6:00.
Olive buried herself deeper under my arm so according to her clock, we aren’t near 8:00.
When I swung my legs over the side of the bed I buckled under the physical weight of the darkness: I struggled to straighten and almost hobbled to the kitchen. Snapped down the kettle, kneaded my hands, hung from the door frame and stretched out my shoulder. Who owned this body anyways?
Then I glanced at the illuminated clock on my desk: 2:30.
I forgave my fifty-seven years instantly, pitied those commuters just getting home, unplugged the kettle, folded myself back into the still warm envelope of comforter and dog. And slept.
I did not age one hundred years as I believed since complying with daylight savings. Darkness is a trick of the eye, a sleight of hand, a roll of the dial.
I just needed another week to adjust.
I slept the rest of absolution.