Two big days in a row.
And here you are.
Finally horizontal.
Yesterday was the feast.
Today was...
whatever today turned out to be.
Maybe you were up before dawn.
Standing in line for a sale.
In a parking lot, with a thermos.
Or you worked a long shift.
Ringing up other people's deals.
Smiling at the four hundredth customer.
If that was you...
thank you.
Your feet have earned this bed.
Maybe you drove home from the relatives.
Hours of taillights in the rain.
Or you stayed in pajamas all day...
and ate pie for breakfast.
Honestly, good for you.
However it went...
the holiday is done Your now.
body has been going for days.
For the next six minutes...
let's turn everything off.
Slowly.
Let your eyes close.
Listen to the rain.
Your head might still be full of noise.
Voices at the table.
Long goodbyes on the porch.
The kind that go on and on.
"Okay, we're really going now."
And then one more story at the car.
The clatter of pans.
The dishwasher running for the third time.
Let those sounds get quieter now.
Like a party winding down.
Guests leaving one by one.
The last car backs out of the driveway.
Its headlights sweep the wall...
and they're gone.
The house goes quiet.
It's just you now.
Breathe in slowly...
And let it out.
All of it.
Now picture your body as a After house.
a big holiday.
Every light still on.
We'll walk through it slowly.
Turning off each light.
Letting each room go dark and still.
Start at the top.
Your head.
The attic.
Click.
The light goes off.
The worry lines let go.
Now your face.
Your eyes.
Your jaw.
Click.
Heavy and dark.
Your jaw hangs a little loose.
Down the stairs to your shoulders.
They carried the platters today.
And the folding chairs.
Click.
Let them sink.
Your arms and hands.
All that hugging.
All that washing up.
Click.
Your hands go heavy and still.
Now your chest and belly.
The kitchen.
Still a little full from yesterday.
Click.
Let it be warm and quiet in there.
Your hips and your tired back.
The family room.
Hours of sitting in the car.
Click.
Let them settle into the bed.
Your legs.
The hallway.
Click.
And your feet.
The front porch light.
The very last one.
Click.
The whole house is dark now.
Heavy and still.
Notice how different a house feels...
once everyone is gone.
The quiet has a weight to it.
That's how your body feels now.
Quiet,
with a weight to it.
Only the rain now.
Nobody's coming over.
Nobody's leaving.
The leftovers can wait.
The decorations in the garage can wait.
Those are December's problem.
If a light flickers back on...
a thought, a to-do...
just switch it off again.
Click.
Your body is quiet.
Every room is resting.
The rain runs down the gutters.
The furnace hums once and goes quiet.
Breathing in...
And out...
The holiday is done.
You made it through.
The weekend is here.
Sleep late, if you can.
Leftover pie will still be there.
Lights out.
Goodnight.