Unmanned

As pure as they were, she had to refuse them. Take a rain check, a synaptic leave of absence. Orphic smuggling was in bloom. Two seasons converging on what the eyes can take. There was no reason to be upset. The sedate apprehension of stash and country reverberated through the day. Before the pill, things were ripe. The odd bird in the tree outside her window was on the verge of telling her what had to be done. There was room for advice, for so much to reap and give back. She had many enablers at that time of life, mostly unconscious ones. Her teeth chattered oaths that fogged the glass pane. Now, a sea of forgiving warmth would wash over her, over the methods of her upbringing, the outbursts of close breadwinners, the words, tools and trophies they'd occasionally use to bash one another. As pure as they were, she had to refuse them, and look on the bright side primed by hardened clinicians, beyond the mashup of moms, dads and birthdays, allotted to visiting hours.