Old Friends

It’s Tuesday again.  This isn’t something I think consciously when the sun ushers it in like clockwork every week.  It’s something that sits in the chair in the corner of my room, patiently waiting for me to open my eyes.  Even then it doesn’t announce it’s presence.  It doesn’t say “hi” or “good fucking morning, let’s have a great day”.  No.  It’s much too experienced in these matters for all that.  It just sits slouched in that chair, legs crossed, quietly waiting for me to open my eyes and notice it is there.  Maybe that’s why I don’t throw back the layers of blankets and move my feet to the floor until nearly 8 O’clock this morning. 

Secretly sometimes I browse the houses for sale in Portland, Oregon, as I dream of packing my car with my two dogs and one fearless kitten and leaving all of this tragedy behind.  It’s a nice dream but I know it wont happen any time soon.  I know tragedy doesn’t get left behind.  It is part of this reality that sits awkwardly inside me.  There’s no leaving it behind.  Fearless Kitten cuddles in the curves of my arm, watching as I scroll through pictures of houses I wont actually buy.  He says he likes the one with the big yard and asks if there are any birds he can chase. Tuesday clears his throat from the corner. Time to get up.

Coffee made, dogs fed, kitten cuddled now I’m sitting outside in the rocking chair that sits beside another one, empty. It’s raining again.  No gardening today.  That’s okay there is work to be done.  Cases to review.  Misdirected anger to reign in and calls to be made.  I still have my rocking chair on this porch overlooking the garden.  The myrtle tree leaves have stopped turning yellow.  I wonder if the extra organic fertilizer filled with iron that I gave it on Friday are what finally made it feel better.  Summer is packing its bags, turning its attention to other parts of the world.  Fall weaves its wintery hands into the air.  Tuesday sits down in the rocking chair beside me, leans back and asks how I’m doing.  “Fuck you” I say in response.  He leans back, slowly cross his legs then tells me he’ll be here all day, no rush.  

I’ve arranged to start work two hours later than usual for the foreseeable future.  This is a good compromise I think.  It allows me time in the morning to sit with my garden and meet all the words that have convened in my head overnight before setting on the task of harnessing the reserves of my mind so I can focus on work.  We’ll see how that turns out.  It’s Tuesday again, this time commenting on the rain.  Fuck you I tell him.  He isn’t phased.  He just keeps on rocking in the chair right next to me. I guess in that way he’s like an old friend who will be by my side no matter how much I push him away.  Maybe I’ll offer him a cup of coffee instead. 

And to my old friends who sit in rocking chairs, metaphorically, right next to me while I push you away, I see you are there.  You are noticed and cherished even when I look away.  You know who you are. Good morning.  It’s Tuesday again.