@Kathryn Holmes nice ! Very smart !

@Kathryn Holmes Willow followed her grandfather toward the truck, her suitcase wheels bumping over the uneven pavement as if protesting the move as much as she was. The Colorado sky stretched wide above her, too big, too open, too unfamiliar. She slid into the passenger seat, clutching the strap of her bag like it was the last piece of her old life she could hold onto. Her grandfather didn’t speak, but the quiet wasn’t uncomfortable — just heavy, like the air knew what she’d lost. As they drove toward the ranch, Willow felt the strange, trembling truth settle in her chest: she wasn’t just starting over. She was starting alone.

So I found out the word of the day is torpor, which is perfect because the entire cosmos has been in torpor since the Big Bang got tired halfway through. You ever see a galaxy in torpor? Just spinning slowly, like, Yeah, I’ll get to forming stars eventually.” Nebulae lounging around like cosmic couch potatoes, planets napping through their own orbits. Even black holes are like, I could devour that star, but honestly? I’m wiped. And don’t get me started on comets. Comets are the universe’s interns — sprinting around doing laps while the rest of space is lying there in full torpor, whispering, “Calm down, overachiever.” Meanwhile, I try to get out of bed and gravity says, Buddy, I’m doing you a favor. That’s torpor. Cosmic torpor. The universe’s way of saying, Let’s all just, not.

Once a week, the universe sends me a single piece of craziness. One confetto drifts down from the sky, lands on my desk, and immediately declares itself ambassador of a minor star system. One spaghetto escapes dinner, stretches to impossible length, lassos a passing comet, and rides it like a cosmic cowboy. One graffito appears on the moon spelling NO in glowing letters visible from Earth. I don’t argue anymore. I just salute the weekly singularity as reality unravels like it’s trying to knit backwards.

Once a week, something goes wildly, physically wrong, and I’ve stopped pretending it’s unusual. I’ll open a cupboard and twelve plastic Tupperware containers avalanche out like they’ve been plotting a coup. I’ll trip over absolutely nothing and perform a full interpretive dance before regaining balance. A broom will fall over on its own, startling me into launching a spoon across the room. Last Thursday, I sneezed so hard I knocked over a lamp. I didn’t even apologize. At this point, slapstick is just part of the weekly routine — chaos hits me with a frying pan, and I simply carry on.

If I found myself trapped in a confined space with someone who wronged me — someone who slipped past consequences and will likely keep doing so — the temptation to act would flare up fast. Anger always offers a shortcut. But shortcuts rarely lead anywhere worth going. So I would choose to do nothing. Not out of fear. Not out of passivity. But because I refuse to let someone else’s wrongdoing rewrite my character. Justice isn’t always mine to deliver, and vengeance certainly isn’t. As Jesus said, “Vengeance is mine.” That line isn’t about surrender — it’s about trust. It’s about refusing to become the thing that hurt you. In that locked space, I would stand in my own integrity. Their choices are theirs. My choices are mine. And I choose to walk out clean, even if they never do