The Funk

It comes and goes. It’s like a little beast that pops in every now and then, just to say hello. Bringing with it the usual host of anxieties and neuroses. He’s got sharp little teeth, and strong little claws, with fur that bristles. Like a stalwart hedgehog, but soft enough that you’ll let him in. And then he roots. Roots and digs and burrows and settles. His favorite nest in my house is just behind my rib cage, up a little and just behind, tucked enough to be secure, but near enough to disrupt any other organs that may try and muss his slumber. He rolls and prickles and snores. Sometimes sweet dreams visit and he rests peacefully, and you nearly wonder if he’s snuck out in a secret moment of distraction. Then he rolls over and you’re reminded, with an alarming thunkscrapedrop, that he’s still there.

He serves his purpose, and he overstays his welcome. To him, it all seems fair and just. As long as there’s a cozy spot made available for him, he settles. And being a good hostess, I seem poorly able to bid him leave.

He’s stopped in for a visit today, my little funk. I’m not quite sure how to entertain him while he stays, nor how long this trip of his will be. Making him welcome, not adapting to his presence but merely accepting him, seems to be the only sensible way.