Melancholy Hyperbole

Poetry about longing.

Most of the Days of the Week

On Monday you make pancakes, pay the bills, clean the floor, wipe down the counters, and begin chopping vegetables for soup. As the knife slices the onion thin, you peel away its outer layer and consider committing seppuku at noon.

On Tuesday you start the Crock-Pot, dust the blinds, rake the leaves, strip the beds, and carry the laundry downstairs. You put the wash on delicate, cold, and as you turn to go upstairs to the hum of the washer balancing its own mind, you longingly consider freshly washed, warmed, and crisp sheets tied gracefully around a rafter and your neck. Those beams appear strong.

Wednesday after tucking the kids into bed and starting the dishwasher, you wash your face, brush and floss your teeth, and line every pill bottle in the medicine cabinet up on the bathroom counter before considering what they will find in the morning. Then you carefully place the bottles back in the cupboard, turn out the lights, and climb into bed yourself, after checking the breaths of your children.

Thursday night you have a little bit too much to drink. Some wine. Several beers. Rum in a hot cup of tea. Then you remember something Nietzsche said about thoughts of suicide getting many through a dark night. This week you’ve made it three and a half days but it isn’t the weekend yet. You aren’t sure if N is right, but you know you can’t drink the antifreeze.

Friday you go out for groceries and consider high speed, a curve, a tree, or maybe that bridge over there. But you probably wouldn’t even be successful and then what a mess you’d make. No one would be there to clean it up. And the kids. Who would make them breakfast?

Saturday, you roll over to turn off the alarm but there isn’t one. A blessing. Shortly thereafter there are kids on top of you, climbing over you, giggling, offering to get you coffee, begging for eggs and bacon, and so you make your way to the kitchen.

When the grease in the bacon pan begins to sizzle, you don’t imagine dousing yourself in it or starting a grease fire. Instead you serve up breakfast and sip your coffee admiring the life you have created, the one still in the making.
 
 

DeirdreFaganBioPicDeirdre Fagan currently lives in Illinois where she is an educator, widow, and mother of two. She’s a writer and a foodie who loves to create edible art and play with words. She has published creative work in Connotation Press, Grey Sparrow Journal, and Bartleby Snopes, among others. She is currently completing a collection of short stories and a memoir.

 

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Categories: Poetry

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5 replies

  1. Wow. Chills.
    Beautiful work, Deirdre.

  2. Bravo! Stark, simple, moving. Shades of D. Parker, but so much more hopeful and happier. This is lovely, Deirdre!

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  1. “Most of the Days of the Week” by Deirdre Fagan | Words for the Year

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