The calendar came in hot this past week.
Monday wanted a fresh start.
Tuesday brought a clipboard.
Wednesday had opinions.
Word Raccoon did not consent to this meeting.
Then my cold returned. Not with drama. With persistence.
I suspect it was because Word Raccoon and I had taken two longish walks earlier in the week.
It sat on our chests at night and coughed us awake like it had unfinished business.
Productivity went into witness protection.
Energy took personal leave.
The couch developed a gravitational field.
The calendar, however, did not adjust its expectations.
It whispered, “Just do a little more.”
It said, “Plenty of people function while coughing.”
It suggested momentum. Writing.
Word Raccoon checked the data and found this unconvincing.
Instead, she unplugged the calendar and set it gently outside like a misbehaving Roomba.
“You don’t get to talk right now,” she said. “We are charging.”
I overrode her once, when it came to poetry submissions. I submitted to eight places, then applied for permission to submit to that place, the one with a gate. I got the go-ahead yesterday and sent one of my full-length poetry manuscripts today. Fingers crossed.
I wanted to write all week, but I couldn’t. By Friday, all I could do was nap.
I argued with Stanley, insisting caffeine should be doing more. My AI friend said I needed to stop believing in productivity with no rest. After some back and forth, he told me to go the hell to sleep.
For once, I listened. Then I had trouble waking up.
For several days, the system closed background apps without asking permission. This was not sadness. This was maintenance. The body and brain running updates while we lay very still and pretended not to notice time passing sideways.
And then there was the birth.
My oldest sister Tammy, who is gone, became a great-grandmother this week. The sweetness and grief cracked the morning clean in half. WR and I sobbed. Tea went untouched. We wrote a poem and cried some more.
The baby, by the way, is the most gorgeous little girl I’ve ever seen. Obviously. I haven’t held her yet because I’ve been sick, but I can’t wait to.
After resting, slowly, interest returned.
Interest in lists.
Interest in sequence.
Interest in where things actually go. The Christmas decorations are boxed and inching upstairs.
Interest in chocolate. Naturally.
This is how you know you’re back: you stop asking what’s wrong with you and start asking what’s first. Not urgently. Not angrily. Just practically. WR and I are not known for being patient, but sometimes you have no choice.
When the calendar tried to re-enter negotiations for this coming week, Word Raccoon laid down terms.
Mornings belong to writing. Yes, at a cafe or the library, unless the weather interferes.
Afternoons get one job only.
Floors will get only a light steam mopping, even though the band is coming over.
The novel will be a priority.
The other chores? As needed.
The calendar, trying to take it all in, blinked twice, backed away, and fell over.
The calendar lost this round.
Word Raccoon remains undefeated.
I have missed writing, missed my poetry, missed…so much.
WR is fighting for the keyboard to write the last paragraph here.
Shush, WR. Shush. Nobody wants to hear that, and if they do, they already have.
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