Some mornings, you just don’t want to get out of bed. The idea of another day overwhelms you and you’d prefer to stay warm and under the covers. But you get up because you have to, because you have a job and people depending on you, if only for a few more days.

On the drive to work, you cave and break your no-coffee streak, because the day before you tried to have a conversation with a coworker but couldn’t manage to put words together in a coherent fashion. The coffee makes you feel better and you plow through your work, curse when your $20,000 property tax bank deposit is off by nine cents and pump your fists when you figure out where you screwed up along the way. You meet your father for lunch and then head back to court because hey, maybe law school isn’t the worst idea in the world anymore. You hang out with the lawyers and get their opinions on law school and the court system. One of them, a man about your parents’ age with a large mustache, tells you to choose what sort of life you want before you decide to go to law school, or before you do anything, really.

Then the inmates from the jail come in and you recognize a guy who went to middle school with you. He’s got an eight-year-old daughter and six more months in jail and you wonder at what point you went in such different directions. You leave court after a couple hours and drive up to Woodstock because there’s a pair of shoes you want, but the boutique is closed. You wonder why the hell a shop in the center of town is closed at 4 p.m. and figure that while you’re up there, you’ll wander aimlessly around town. You end up in Dharmaware and find that they sell your favorite incense there. A nice surprise, because you haven’t seen this particular kind since you lived in Korea. You walk back outside and down Tinker Street to your car. As you drive down Rt. 28, Jay-Z’s “Forever Young” plays on the radio and you remember driving down the same road years earlier listening to Youth Group’s version of the song. The better version, you think. You remember driving to your first day of work at the Reservoir Inn. Your uncle passed away that afternoon, but your parents still made you go to work. After all, it was your first day. That was four years ago, but sometimes, when you think of it, you pull out your iPod and play that song and think about what it meant to you then and how easy things were that summer because all you had to worry about were the specials of the day and the cute guy with his southern drawl who was game to stargaze at the Zena playground late at night after you both got off work.

On your way home you stop at the market to get some food for dinner. On your way out, you donate your last dollar for a Relay for Life star and think of your high school boyfriend’s mother, who lost her fight with breast cancer two months after your ex decided he wanted to date someone else. You remember the last time you spoke to her, a few days before she passed away. She was home sick from work, but you didn’t think anything of it. Wasn’t she in remission? When you got the phone call that Sunday night, standing outside Wawa in College Park, you lost your balance for a minute, steadied yourself and then stepped on the bus. You cried on the bus back to North Campus, on the walk from the bus stop to your dorm and in the Cumberland stairwell so that nobody could see you. You think about the weeks after that, the unanswered calls and e-mails and finally the visit to the cemetery, where you left a letter that eventually repaired some of the broken pieces. That was the very first time you learned the power of the written word. And that was the very first time you learned the power of your words.

After the market, you come home. The cleaners came this morning, so your house is looking the best it’s looked in two weeks. Now you sit down on the couch, put on the best version of “Forever Young,” think about making some dinner and decide that today was worth getting out of bed for.

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