You wonder who put salt under your eyelids when you weren't looking. You think they may have slipped some pepper in there too. You walk into the living room that might be yours and you notice that something is missing. The dog is accounted for, no kids to worry about. You wander around the tiny apartment. You check the freezer. There, as always, she has left you enough complete, frozen homemade meals to last you through the two weeks that she will be gone. She has been doing this for years. You don't even talk about it anymore. They are just there, like her.
This might be the day you shake hands and tell her your name. It might be the day you renew yours vows. Either way, time is relative. As you think about time you settle yourself deep into the shallow pink sofa like a deep sea fish comfy in a tide pool. You think that maybe time has gotten confused. She will walk in the door at any minute and announce that she had a wonderful trip. She's not even on the plane yet. She's been gone for a year.
You put your head in your hands and imagine that if you sit that way long enough it will come to you. What will come to you? You have no idea. You just wait. You have six more cups of coffee. It's been six years. She's not coming back. It's been six minutes, your children have disappeared.
It made sense yesterday. It will make sense tomorrow. It will never make sense today. You wonder how you keep missing today. You circle it on your calendar, you make lists titled, "Things to do Today" but, still, you always miss it. You tell yourself that when today comes, you won't miss her anymore. You wait for today. You realize, suddenly, that it's tomorrow. You missed it again. You start to think that,maybe, without her, there is no today.
She isn't gone yet. She isn't going anywhere today. Tomorrow, yes. Yesterday she left. You open the calendar to tomorrow. The page says it's today. All the pages say it's today. You were so sure you missed it, but now it's all there is.