autosarcophagy

She used to sleep soundly through the night. That changed when she hit forty. Not on her 40th birthday exactly, but close enough that it felt significant.

Now, she’s awake—her usual 2 a.m. stirring. It’s always at this hour that fear of the future creeps in.

It’s funny. As a young woman, she never worried about the future. Back then, she paid rent four days late, held her breath as her debit card swiped, heart pounding. She lived moment to moment. Or, at most, paycheck to paycheck. Back then, the future could only be better, because the present was so harsh.

Now, she lies in the dark with her eyes shut, slowing her breath, holding possible futures in her mind like items in a store. She examines them, imagines them, as if trying to choose which one to buy. But every scenario feels like that bottle of ketchup she picked up last month.

The last one on the shelf. The label was slightly crinkled in the center. At the time, it didn’t seem like a big deal—imperfect but usable. But over the next few days, the label bent more, thinned, peeled at the edges, exposing sticky glue. Every time she picked it up, thick residue clung to her fingers and wouldn’t wash off. It had to be worn away—slowly, with time, like worry that lingers until the mind sheds it.

Thinking about the future felt like that. A small flaw she could overlook—until it grew. Until it clung to everything. So she slowed her breathing. Reached out to pet the cat curled beside her.

Maybe she’d do better as a cat. A pet. Just food and water, and the hardest choice is where to nap. She imagined her favorite spot would be the chair by the door, the one that soaked in sunlight most of the day. Then again, maybe she’d bat angrily at toys, pace in circles, stare out the windows at the world beyond the walls.

The cat purred.

Once, the cat lived outside, surviving on bugs. It had seemed happy then. Now it lived indoors and seemed happy enough. The cat probably didn’t worry about the future—at most, about tomorrow. Like the cat, she didn't worry about tomorrow or even the day after tomorrow.

It was the formless, shapeless blobs of time she feared. The amoeba-time: one month, two months, six months, a year, a decade—blending together into some uncertain something. So many variables. The husband snoring beside her—he could die soon or live for years. The job she might land—or not. The new town she might like—or hate. The people she hasn’t met—the people she has. Her heartbeat—racing now—might carry her to ninety, or stop at fifty-seven, like her mama’s. Anything could happen between now and then.

The cat put a paw to her face.

She hadn’t feared the future back when she feared the present. When life came in two-week increments. When uncertainty was survival, not philosophy. Maybe the ability to worry about the future was the luxury of a stable present.

She thought: If I were a cat, I’d probably nap next to whoever gave me food.

And that was enough—for now. Enough to put the future on pause. Enough to put the ketchup away, to let go of the day, to focus only on the night and the sleep she still might find.

What was she worried about? All the bills were paid. To her left, her husband snored. To her right, the cat snored. This was the music that lulled her back to sleep.