My sister had to personify the days of the week, and as a child, I could see how that would be hard, because she hasn’t lived enough to know why--
Sunday has to wear tights to church, to cover the rug burns on her knees, and she woke up so early, to cover the bruises on her neck.
She hasn’t dreaded enough to know that–
Monday stares at herself in the mirror, rubbing her stomach, tilting her head, and hoping that her mother won’t ask her what she had for breakfast or her friends won’t notice she didn’t touch anything on her tray.
Nor has she had the opportunity to feel so mundane, so boring, like--
Tuesday as she taps her pencil like a metronome against a wooden desk, where initials of ex-lovers were etched into the surface.
And I’m not quite sure she’s felt the drag that--
Wednesday takes, with her heart fluttering because he touched her hand as he passed her the joint; nor has she felt the harsh exhale that Wednesday wheezes out so viciously.
She hasn’t felt the impatience and anxiousness that–
Thursday gets as she checks her underwear and downs yet another cup of orange juice, then clambering into her hot bath; she’s stopped taking her birth control for the month and can’t wait for Nature’s gift to arrive.
But she doesn’t truly understand the relief that–
Friday brings as she finishes her chores, going above and beyond for her ill mother who promises she won’t **** over if her daughter goes out for a crazy night on the town with her friends.
However, she might understand the laziness and lovability of Saturday.
Saturday likes the ocean on her feet, even with yesterday’s sand caked between her toes, and she forgets to wipe on the mat before charging into the hotel and jumping on the bed, before snuggling up under the covers, with the television set on, playing nothing but mindless soap operas or black and white movies.
