Everyone wanted to know what Dawn was getting at the store and everyone had something to add to her list. I remember when Sunday nights turned into week nights because people would email and spin up work conversations about the coming week right there on a Sunday. And what a pity it was, we handed over the end of our weekends thinking about work, which isn’t much different than actually working. Just the sound of the dryer drum and a jazz trumpet for me. That’s a Sunday night, no buzzing sounds until Monday.

This is our house, it’s where we all live. We did get tired of each other at times, I know that. Toilet paper rolls got used up and the empty cardboard lay there unattended like no one lived here. No one dealt with much. I’d started picking at the skin around my cuticles again which is never a good sign. When I closed my eyes I saw the same pattern of weeds I’d torn out earlier. How I yanked them out with anger aimed at our president and all the injustices of the world: this is how you make change, by getting to the root. And I delighted in how many lawn bags I filled. Lined them up along the road. Thought maybe it’s time I did more with my life, hoped it wasn’t just another passing thought. The weeds grow back the next day. The weed as a metaphor for hate or intolerance works to a degree, but the hate or intolerance has their own version of weeds too. This is our house, it’s where we all live. And this much madness is too much sorrow.

Categories: musings, prose, writing

Tags: creative nonfiction, journal writing, Memoir, prose, stream-of-consciousness, work-life balance