the day starts later than it should with the privilege of not being needed. I open the door to an empty house and tend to chores to compensate for daytime lost to sleep. after the shower I shrug through the backlog of conversations I let down with inconsistency each week. in the midst of the mess on my shoulders I protect myself with disconnect I cloak as preservation. so many ways to fall short. I laugh in the face of another excuse made for my unwillingness to claim responsibility for who and how I am: absent and inconsistent til there’s a chance to cry and play my violin.
I take an old friend to a cafe near the station. we order coffee and sit by the window. I ask her how she is. life hasn’t been gentle, though she looks and laughs just the same as I remember. since I last saw her she’s written and read the eulogies at funerals for four of her close friends. her brother has lost the strength to walk, though he’s certain he’s still here for something. she talks about realising how old she is when she sees the toll of time in the death and decay of those she’s known and love. the nuns meet to plan for the future with the order dying out, some less at peace with this than her. turning eighty this week, she tells me she is happy doing nothing. I try to imagine pulling on the breaks after a life of spending every breath on others. she’s started listening to herself and admits that she is tired. she asks if I’ve been acting and the answer disappoints us both. she’s been writing and learning more about who and where she’s been. I tell her she inspires me and I mean it.
the songs in my ears ward off thoughts on the periphery. from the station I keep walking to escape today's potential. on the street a man by the lights wears a shirt that reads ‘never dead forever’. I make dinner plans to hide from empty time and where it leads.
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