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A spring, not a well

It was 5:07 AM, and Watty Piper’s “The Little Engine That Could” was all I could think about.
Not THE Little Engine herself, not the kind little blue engine. 
More so, the rusty old engine.
My eyelids felt heavy as I rolled out of bed, the balls of my feet hitting the floor first. My ankles cracked and my knees ached. Inwardly I blamed my run from the previous night but, in all actuality, it’s likely just Father Time taking its course as well as consequence from years of back handsprings and weekends on the soccer fields.
I plodded down the hallway to my daughter’s room where she cried from her crib, silently willing her to not wake her brothers in the adjacent room.
I must rest my weary wheels… I cannot, I cannot, I cannot. The rusty old engine’s words circled through my mind. I scooped up my daughter who cheered with glee to see her rescuer and turned back toward my bed in vain. As is true every other morning, she would NOT be going back to sleep. No matter how great at cuddling I …

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