there is no need for napping when i have time off. in the middle of the day, when i usually reach for a cup of coffee or a fluffy pillow i pace around my house, looking for something else to do. i curl up on the big green chair and read a book, ready to fall asleep with my face pressed up against page 11 like i’ve been doing for the past month, but i do not close my eyes. i finish the story and then get up and pour myself another glass of water. i march down to the basement, march back up to the kitchen with the mop and drag it around the dirty linoleum. i scrub the counters and oven and dishes. i even bleach the sink. i catch up on e-mail. i restock the refrigerator. i organize my closet. i call friends who live in other places, faraway places, places i might not get to see this year, and i tell them how much i miss them. i think and worry and ponder and fret, about too much, about everything. i realize i am becoming my mother, who is becoming her mother. i try not to think about it anymore. i don’t change out of my pajamas until 2. i don’t leave the house until dark. i don’t know what time it is. i don’t even know what day of the week it is.