Every new day brings routinized, sanitized normality. The soothing ease of knowing what will unfold before you. The work load, the petty chatter, the water cooler topics, the senescent drive, the relief of another hapless day quieted by the darkened night - all the trappings of an adult life, which is neither horrible nor wonderful. And despite the familiarity of the day, there are both subtle and jarring reminders of an unsettled life.
The coworkers, friends, acquaintances, even the dog (poor Saul) appear to extend looks of sorrow and pity. This I cannot accuse those around me of any malice, but I know of having been on the other end of exchanges that there is nebulous haze, which smother honest sentiment into stunted and distorted responses.
Every new day buries me in worry. I want to eradicate all fear and doubt in an oblivion of alcohol and reckless emotional effusion, but I worry about the call that will come.
A friend pointed to the call when she surmised that a bag packed with my black suit, shoes, and little else would be ready by the door. The first call I received from my cousin saying my mother had cancer had removed a pillar of faith and stability. The second call, I fear, will disturb nothing because I exist in this moment as an individual who has expected the shoestring to break.
Every new day is a mixed blessing filled with false hope and bittersweet joy. When my mother says through the telephone that she can sense recovery around the corner, I cannot help but feel remorse and wonder.
Every new day is a corner.
