bridge from sunday

I dream of being late for work, drenched in sweat, catching a cab to my home and not having enough time to shower.

I wake up before my alarm goes off. The tick of a cat's tail is at my chin. The heavy curtains gap near the top, a knowing wink of light: not yet, but soon. Without my glasses, the bedpost is a smudge and not a sphere. Cat's tail ticks. To call the weekend "brief" would do a disservice to all we packed in: our house show, our gardening, our quiet talks and unquiet laughter.

Monday mornings are difficult for me in the most cliched way: I struggle to stay motivated in my job, because one half of it requires me to be the heavy, the other half requires me to be the martyr, and both halves require me to take all of it with unflagging good humor. Some days I feel guilty for how much it frustrates me, for how little I care to interact with the rest of the world as a result. Some days I wonder if I belong in this profession; this is followed immediately by musing on whatever else I would be possibly qualified to do if not this.

The bridge from Sunday to Monday is usually paved with panicked dreams involving exaggerated absent-mindedness, lack of planning on a gross scale, appointments missed, obligations shattered, dependents horrified. I wake up before my alarm goes off; the dreams crumble like mildewed paper. Here are a few solid moments of my own before I push forward and out in an unremarkable birth.

Sometimes when I wake up we are holding hands.

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I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.