Isn't there always a list?
Life is made of stories and lists.
And Monday could look ominous.
Or it could be bright.
There is huge news sat up in a back room. A secret like Christmas. Like you can't sleep half the night thinking of how this is so huge, but you can't write about it because you know nothing, not even a little bit though you have been speculating.
Speculating in gold.
Speculating and wiping down cabinets till your arm became numb. And you received a book of photos and newspaper clippings of an all male beauty review and how a community built something in the middle of it. There was homemade chili and soup with crackers and cornbread for only a dollar fifty a bowl. Also cakes for sale back in 1990. They greeted a fire truck, and she wrote with ellipses and green magic marker.
Rummage sales and the frying of fish. A man doing wood carving.
My brother remembers going to see those old relics and how it felt to be a part of a community.
Today I am grateful for old photos a very kind man brought me in the form of a scrapbook. Gold cursive on red that glistens. A string to tie it off.
And a week, a future of paint on cabinets and walls. Organization and lists. A contract to be sent. It's funny how I complain to be tired in a world where I can go to a market and buy crisp, cold vegetables. How a can of soup can be a meal. And water. Clean water is cheap.
And ice. Ice is downright beautiful.