MONDAY. Today is the day it begins. Sniffly nose and a chorus of funeral bells from the church next door. Clothes reeking of offensive conditioner already neatly stacked on the ironing board. It is Monday after all. Poetry. Yes poetry. To make sense of things. Potato farls and normandy butter. "Struggle (now) by little and little against idleness". Remember mushrooms. And toilet paper and strawberries (for a little pirates lunch) and maybe another pint of milk. Tell yourself bleach isn't the only answer to the stain on the carpet. Skin on milky coffee. Acidy bite of morning hunger.
Today is the day it ends. No more so. Stack books you intend to read on your bedside table. Make promises. Find the lost car (the one with eyes) and leave it where he will find it. Write things down. Obsessively pouring that heart (and a five year plan) onto linen paper. Feet snuggly in stripy socks. Missing the one before the last one badly. Still. Eggs in a bowl, stained the colour of water. Laughing out loud at a man on the radio. An accent so thick, so familiar, it is foreign. Bitter taste of yesterdays argument.
Today is the day. Buy sunflowers when you pick him up. Ring the car tax people. SHOUT AT THEM. Read, read, read. When all is said and done, read. Down on your hands and knees fishing out lego. Making his bed. Face for a moment in his dancing rabbits pillow. Make mackerel pate for lunch. SERVE WITH WATERCRESS. Consume with lust. ( But don't let it destroy you). Euculyptus on an old womans handkerchief. "Here is a soul, accepting nothing". It is Monday after all. A September Monday so there is no better. Hiss of the iron steaming in the kitchen.
Laugh now. Make lists, plans. Try and MAKE sense.
It is Monday after all.
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