Requiem for a Monday night

The lower level is dim. It is lit by one small lamp, a tin-star nightlight, and the overhead in the pantry because I was too lazy to turn it off when I grabbed the bag of tortilla chips.

Upstairs, the children are asleep.

I am alone, dunking these bougie multigrain chips into spicy hummus, thinking about the past. For someone so relieved to have escaped it, I certainly spend a lot of time looking backward.

The laundry is diligently humming away behind closed doors.

What’s important to remember is that I reminisce with relief. And pride. Because I was stuck in a spot, in a perpetual cycle for so long that I could easily still be whirring around in the same old place—lonely but not alone, frustrated, yearning, broke and hopeless. But I’m not. The lid came flying open, I climbed out, and I shut it for the last time.

I no longer measure my days in domestic tasks and women’s work.

Sometimes it seems silly to relish the present as much as I do. And yet I can’t help but pause and soak it in, sitting in peace on a quiet Monday night. Older, calmer, in a kitchen that smells of tomorrow morning’s coffee and Tide detergent.

Because I can pay for the nicer shit now.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s