drippy

Lunch break
It is cold and quiet in the library. I have taken down my book display, so all the little book holders are sitting empty like stiff little white skeletons. I have misplaced my mug of coffee, which I'm sure will make itself evident by Monday. Or maybe the following Monday, as it has to compete with the nose-numbing air freshener I used in the library.

Friday. Another Friday, I swear we had one last week. It's as if each day of the week is aligned in a sort of worm-hole fashion to create singular, long, terrible days. Every Friday I'll be stuck in this endless Friday. And Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Saturday, Sunday, and the rest of them, too.

Promises, promises
 One of the high school student swore to me that my copier kicked the bucket ("whoa, this is waaay before my time, this is from like the 80s"), and the tech guys told me it was a dinosaur and wasn't getting any new parts, so I was all excited about maybe getting a shiny new copier - and then the maintenance people came around and fixed it anyway. Old Bessy lives to see another decade.

Yes, I'm avoiding talking about my personal life. I am a career girl now. I drink coffee, talk about student profiles, wear uncomfortable shoes, and watch tv shows starring Sarah Jessica Parker.

About my personal life
Fine.

My mother took Gavin to bronze casting last night while Mike and I poured our guts out to the therapist. I am going to dig out my half-finished sculpture from last year and work it back into life. Clay, plaster, blast furnace, grinding metal, blowtorches, dangerous chemicals - that's therapy right there. It will be wonderful to kick off the heels, pull on some jeans, get my hands dirty, and get into that intense concentration where everything else disappears.

Hear me roar or something

My mom's house. Woke with a start from bad dreams that I couldn't remember, puffy-eyed. Brushed the wrinkles out of my work outfit that was chucked in the closet since the man brought it over last Friday. Calling in sick for Gavin's fever that day meant that a mountain of work and desperate teachers would be waiting for me when I got to the library.

Shuffled downstairs in the dark, pinning my blouse securely shut with a safety pin. On my web board, the news was all bad. My mom came downstairs while I ate my cheerios dismally in front of the laptop, and let out a low moan by the bird cage. Mugwort the Not So Stupid Bulbul (aka Norbert) died overnight. He seemed happy yesterday, snatching bits of strawberry from my fingers and using his wings like hands to crawl all over the cage (his legs hadn't worked since the cat bit him last week). After assembling Gavin's lunchbox and boiling his eggs for breakfast, I went upstairs to wake him while digging through my mom's jewelry boxes. Put on an opal ring, different earrings, a fairy pin, while Gavin sobbed that he didn't want to go to preschool. With her jewelry on, I looked a bit like my mom, like she used to look when she was 26, alone and grim. Hugged Gavin, got him dressed, carried him downstairs with his head on my shoulder.

The ride to work was stiff and awkward after the man arrived to pick us up. He smiled hopefully at me, the kind of smile where you're pretending things aren't as bad as you know they are so that maybe the other person will think so, too. He started trembling a bit when I started talking. I know how that feels, being called on to talk about uncomfortable feelings and events, but my heart doesn't pound anymore when I talk about this thing. Not today. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never.