Home too late for walking so I peddled as hard as I could and my arms worked hard, push, pull, push, pull.
The garage was dark and the airdyne was rusty.
I was hissy fit angry over something someone said and my litany of why was wasted on my husband.
Podcast tried to school me on something, I don’t know.
I stared towards nothing
peddling and pushing and pulling.
Until the fuschia caught my eye.
The crepe myrtle puffs of bloom bursting through.
and life, my life I decide is beautiful.
He makes beautiful things.
He makes beautiful things out of us.
“You better?” my husband asks as I come through the door.
“Yes, I am.”