She was leaning against the bathroom sink when I walked in, almost as if she had been waiting for me. I wasn’t surprised to see her. The idea that I would enjoy this reunion in its entirety was hardly something I believed; at some point, I was well aware that she and I would cross paths. All the same, I was no longer a teenager. Painful, racing heartbeat or no, I was going to speak.
Nope. Nothing to write about right now.
Tomorrow is another day.
Or am I just being lazy?
They said it best, didn’t they?
I’ve discovered that I have a love/hate relationship with those two days called the weekend.
The weekend can be lovely. Saturday allows me to take care of errands and meet with friends and go to the movies–all the things I don’t get to do during the long week. Sunday allows me to wind down a bit, relax, sit down on the couch and catch up with the latest laugh-fest on the Lifetime Movie Network. (How can one woman not realize that the villain is inside THE DARK BEDROOM? Hello?) It’s a delightful combination, those two days.
It only lasts two days. Two days. And then Monday rolls around like a typhoon, as if Saturday and Sunday never manifested themselves! It’s not right. The government needs to…they need to fix it. Just like they commandeered daylight savings time. Because they control when the sun ascends and descends. Right. Never mind.
It’s not fair. The weekend does this thing: you’re getting into the groove, you’re taking naps, starting to love the freedom of it all–and then kaput. Over. Just like that. Biggest letdown ever.
And so it’s Monday. The week has returned and the vicious cycle begins anew. Thank goodness for carbohydrates. They never disappoint me.
There remains fodder about you;
simply because you,
had such an impact.
Youthful wonder and exciting disbelief,
complete with (now) baseless conviction,
all because and due to you.
Such wonder has long faded away.
You became less in eyes than what
you once were perceived to be.
Now 50, formerly and wholly 100.
But for the purposes of poetry,
You live and you breathe and you exist through
curiosity and self-analysis replacing
all that thrived before:
wonder, disbelief, (now) baseless conviction.
No more resentment.
No more anger.
No more laying of fault.
I think of you only when words cry to
be let out, when souls demand
an explanation of that curious, curious
And I am well.
Not that it matters to you.
It matters to me.
It should have always mattered to me.
Copyright © Girley
This is certainly not the place for celebrity stuff, and it won’t be, but the whole Heath Ledger thing is pretty sad. Sad because he did have a child, and any child without his/her parent is just terrible. Sad because he didn’t seem like a member of the young druggie set (no names needed), although none of us really know the true lives of the Hollywooders. Personally, being thrust in that kind of devil-may-care environment, when you can have anything and whenever you want it, would seem to lead a person to throw caution to the wind. Whatever the case may be, death is never normal, and it is always sad.
I had a fish before. She was overfed. Murdered. The investigation is still pending. Despite that particular trauma, I do think of having a pet one day. Me, in my cute apartment (decorated by someone else, because I know nothing about those things), with my medium-sized dog. Probably one that doesn’t require me to run with it, of course, because I fear public humiliation. But moderately fun, super cute, protective. I would give it a human name, like Mr. Walter Smith III. Or Charles Barker. That’s a good one!