The cat is sitting on my lower back. She will start purring soon, a vibrating heating pad. My new station on Pandora plays sweet, soft reggae and calms me. It is Easter on Sunday and that is confusing. Easter is in April. But not this year.
Imagine a person alone in their home, knowing no one will come to visit. This person is a woman, grey. There is a room with a closet and in the closet are boxes. On the boxes are the names of holidays. Easter, Mother’s Day, Memorial Day, Thanksgiving and so on. The letters are written carefully and clearly with a fat green magic marker. The boxes are white cardboard, the edges smudged grey from fingertips over the years. Her fingertips and no one else’s.
It’s windy here today. The wind makes noise against the house, the noise that makes me stay inside, thinking of blankets and bay windows and a different view out the window. Sometimes drinking and smoking doesn’t do it anymore, doesn’t make the fog that hides the real. They tell me that I have a problem with my brain. I guess I’ve known for awhile now. Years now. The label is comforting and anxious at the same time. To be dependent on a prescription…is it different than needing (wanting) a few drinks and a cigarette? Less harmful?
The grey woman goes to the closet and opens the door. She runs her hand down the column of boxes, going by St Patricks Day and reaching Easter. She pulls it out from the stack. The string from the light bulb drifts across her neck and she starts. Pulling on the string to click off the light, she leaves and closes the door.