Writing back

I read the email while the boy industrially played in the bath.
For the moment without need
It was more than I wanted, it turned out.

I couldn’t have told you I wanted something, anything out if it, but there it was.
The mind retreated from it, to the noise of the dripping bath water out of reflex. It was too much, this reaching out, the opening up, words which merited considered and connecting response.
The mind thought it didn’t have energy to.
But something else saw this and put the attention back towards it. As pushing a magnet together on the same poles. Holding it until the resistance lessened.
And then other things came back. I was breathing, the room was warm with bath water, I was being questioned by and answering to a three year old, and I was breathing.
Of course, I’m still not writing back.
But I was closer and if I did, it would get what it deserved.
For now, maybe I can convince the three year old to wash my face.