All the Days

Isn’t it beautiful,

That at this moment, in San Francisco, as the streets awake for the day,

A woman is sitting at her kitchen table,

Eating the overnight oats that she poured almond milk over late last night (she had to get out of bed to do so, because earlier she forgot, or chose to forget),

She looks at the shipping notification that she was sent days ago over e-mail,

Reviewing the jewelry she bought with the small bonus she received,

From her job in an office, a ten minute bus ride away,

Where sometimes she’ll recognize the regular faces on her route, and sometimes she won’t because she’s thinking about something else, about how her mother is doing,

Her face is bare as she sits at her table, before that bus ride, but it glistens from the serum and cream and moisturizer she applied, her lips plump from the injections she got last week,

And she imagines herself wearing that jewelry, and how it will sparkle in the light,

And how it will change her life, in some small way, that jewelry

So even now, bare and robed, her coffee cooling to the point where she won’t drink it, where she’ll end up leaving it congealing on the kitchen sink,

Until she comes home that evening, when she will pour it down the sink, rinse the cup and put it in the dishwasher.

A few states over, the woman’s mother is still sleeping,

She thinks of her daughter for a moment, not a solid thought but just a wondering, as she turns over again, not wanting to leave the warmth of her bed just yet, and for what? 

For a day she knows and has lived over and over for the past few years, since she retired from her job as a teacher,

And it’s not a bad day, to relive and relive,

She’ll get up, feed the small dog that is right now starting to twitch and moan and stretch, readying himself for the day, preparing his owner to get up,

And she’ll take a walk, the way that she does, leaving the front door unlocked,

As she walks down her street and past the small, steal gateway to the park, 

She’ll choose one of the three routes she takes, her dog sniffing the same spots and peeing over top of the scents of the dogs that have been there before them,

The early birds,

At home, after her shower, she’ll watch soap operas as she makes her lunch, as she prepares a portion of her supper, as she rearranges the food in the fridge, 

She’ll wash the vegetables in the sink with that special vegetable rinse that a friend picked up for her, 

Thinking she would like it, thinking it would be good for her to have,

In the afternoon she’ll visit a friend, or go to the mall, or, if the mood strikes her, just sit and watch daytime tv all day, about makeovers and meals and the things that people do,

Something in there will get her excited about life again, and she’ll end the day in a flurry of activity, organizing or cleaning,

And at the end of the day, she’ll be back here in this bed,

She’ll read for a little while, will consider writing in her journal but will decide she’s done enough for today,

And will turn out the light as her dog curls up at her chest, and once again she’ll think about her daughter in San Francisco, and will wonder if the jewelry she bought arrived today,

She knows her daughter is looking forward to her package arriving, and she hopes that tomorrow her daughter will call to tell her it is there with her, and will send her pictures

Of how pretty it looks around her neck, and on her ears and on her fingers, 

Except her ring finger, because her daughter has not married, 

And oh, what a worry,

And further afield,

In some country far away, 

A mother is waking her kids up, gently but firmly, 

They need to start the day,

There isn’t much food, in the cupboards right now, but she’s managed to find something for them, so they don’t wander the streets hungry, all day,

Her husband works away, abroad, and sometimes she forgets which country he is in now,

There have been many, 

And she misses him, but god it’s good when he sends money for them, for the kids,

So that she can maybe buy their youngest shoes, 

As his toes are wearing through the shoes he has now, his little toenails too long,

Her kids don’t want to get up, so she tousles their hair and kisses their still dirty cheeks, her three children in one bed, 

They finally alight, and the swirl of dressing and laughing and teasing and jumping and crying and shouting begins, 

As if the men outside did not have guns, as if the air sirens were music and the rooms they hide in a school,

They’ll go about their day, because this is their life, and it’s what we do,

We go about our days, all over the world, billions and billions of small actions and thoughts, a different day for each one. 

A miracle.

And as I sit and write this, the joy that brings me to know,

That despite the horrors of the world as we know it, 

Each one is thinking about the other, 

And each day is a fresh start,

Each life is lived separately, but together,

With the constant vibration of connection humming between us all,

Not that different, not really, but all different, really,

The moments and decisions and thoughts that make up 8 billion lives,

And all of that possibility, all of that love and hate and anger and sadness and consideration and lack there of,

All the choices, all the days,

A miracle. It’s a miracle.