Friday: The plan this weekend is to edit a story, read a book, clean the kitchen, write an essay. But there is a ladybug in the house and my job becomes to keep track of it.
Saturday : The cats play with acorns in the yard. Take a walk up the road, get some good tremors in my brain, make coffee, sit down, try to trap them. Quickly, the trapping becomes less important than being quiet in the dark.
Sunday: Make a bracelet with a five year old who has a lot of questions. Get blue dye on my hands from the ribbon we use to tie the bracelet. She knocks beads all over the floor. I like the movement and then the clean task of retrieving them.
Monday: Drink coffee, cry in a stranger’s driveway, a parking lot, the sidewalk near the Chinese restaurant. Crying feels dangerous, but not crying feels the same. (What are you doing, though? What are you crying about? Do you even know?)
Tuesday: Write 600 words on the bathroom floor, next to the cat’s water bowl. It does not feel like the rearrangement of my organs, or the answer to everything. It feels smooth, like, we have been waiting, where have you been.