Sometimes I crave chocolate. I long for the sweet melting, the instant hit. I don’t drink coffee. I don’t drink tea. I never craved for coal, or cabbages. But sometimes: chocolate.
More often, I crave sleep. Long, unbroken stretches of peaceful slumber, the sort that carry on into the later hours of the morning. The sort where I can lie, comfortable, without having to go to the loo, or put anyone back to bed, check anyone’s temperature, mop up sick or change wet beds, the way I used to when I was young.
When I was young there was no need for craving. The life free from responsibility, from care, where sleep comes when you wish, when sugary snacks are yours, no consequences asked. No eyebrows twitched with anxiety because everything was open to opportunity and everyone was invincible.
Now that I am older I distrust those who forge into the future with certainty, throwing caution to the wind. I crave a time when the well of anxiety runs dry, when the weight you carry for one child means that the concern you have for another doesn’t drown you, helpless, in its depths. I quietly long for the days I remember, when vulnerability was a faraway concept.