It is 3:00 p.m. on a Wednesday.
Not literally, but it has felt as such since home became my public health-sanctioned everywhere. An endless midday, midweek.
How many times have I walked here by now? Jogged through the stairways and corridors while saturating my phone with similar photos, as if I might discover a new angle that reminds me that time still exists? It was a misty spring sunset yesterday, and today, I’m desperate for shade under this inexorable July heat.
I turn back and climb the hill back home, and reach for my ringing phone. Didn’t we just talk, or was that months ago? My apologies–what day is it, anyways? How much of your life have I failed to acknowledge? I must have drowned in the flood of dolorous news headlines while trying to dial you.
It is once again 3:00 p.m. on a Wednesday, and here I am, once again, at home. Again.