A Good Cry

     The leaves hung like damp yellow and orange rags on the trees.  The wet cold air crawled inside layers of clothing, sneaking through skin, fat and muscle to attack the bones and joints.  The red and yellow streamers in the puddles on the road made by the lights from the cars didn't even interest Joan today.  She longed for her bed's warm, soft comfort.  A nest where she could curl up into herself and shut out the outside world.  Of course she knew she wouldn't.  Once in the house, things would call.  All the "oughta dos", the dishes in the sink, the house plants in need of water, the cat's pan in need of cleaning and of course, the cat himself, wanting food.  She shook her head.  "Still," she thought. "I can dream!"
     A tear crawled down her cheek.  A tear that said, "I'm sorry for you, but you really don't deserve a life yet."
     She sniffed.  "When did I become this nobody?"  She asked aloud.  "Why can't I just sleep?  Why can everyone else play and I have to work?"
     "Shut up!"  She told herself.  "You got to play.  It's just lately that you feel overworked."
     "Not overworked," she answered herself. "Underappreciated.  No one cares what I do unless I stop doing it!"  She began to cry in earnest now as she unlocked her front door.  As the tears coursed down her face, she felt some of the tension  and sadness leave her body.  "A good cry almost always works," she thought.  "Welcome home."  And as soon as the front door closed behind her the silent tears gave way to loud hiccupping.