Almost



The space between almost and done is the most agonizing. This is the final place where everything can fall apart. We have been here before. It is the place where the stitch in your side flares up the most, but the finish line is in sight. It is when the need for sleep weighs heavy on your eyelids and you're swaying in your chair, but the white space where the final paragraph belongs is staring you in the face. It's where you decide whether you're going to be proud or angry with yourself in the morning.

Almost is driving past a motel on the corner of 5th and Nowhere. The town isn't a blink and miss it affair, but the road runs straight through it at a narrow part of its territory. The tip of the iceberg. The meter is on E but you're still going. There is no station in sight, but you are so close and you are so sleepy that it doesn't occur to you to look. Almost comes before the arrival. It is the last stretch of road before you're home for Christmas. Almost can be blink and miss it. Before you know it, you're there.