A Grownup Day

You drive yourself  and sister to church and find your own row to sit in. You rush to exchange greetings with old and new acquaintances in order to get to your Sunday school class in time. Your voice is raspy and throat aches but with forced eagerness engage with ten five year olds for nearly an hour and a half. As you're picking up scraps of angel wings and half chewed pretzels, your sister reminds you of a previous commitment to drive her to work, so you do. Once she enters a building full of ribbons, glitter and paint you drive away.
And you cry.
You merge lanes and wait at stop signs.
And you resist the urge to mutter obscenities  at drivers  who don't know what they're doing.

Home at last. You pass off keys to your mother but drop them on the floor.
The few words you speak are laced with an edginess that has nothing to do with her.
And you climb up the stairs with hands full and heart heavy.
And you sit on your bed
and cry.

You dry your eyes and walk downstairs to an empty house.
Cheddar cheese gets sliced and neatly arranged on plate along with some crackers.
You pace, and try to decide if you will call in sick to work. You play doctor.
Throat pain? Check.
Raspy voice? Its there.
Fatigue? Inconclusive evidence.

At 12:52, you flip a coin.
It's tails.
But what does that mean?
You dial the number of a place you love and hate.
You talk to two people who are irritated and abrupt.
No work till Wednesday.
10 hours of pay will be missed.

The microwave beeps.
A plate of crackers and cheese awaits.
And you eat one
because you can't decide if you should laugh or cry.