Some Time

A cake with black frosting sits plaintively near the coffee maker. There are black balloons on my doorknob. There is a black envelope on my desk. As I roll my chair back and plop myself at my desk, the words of my younger brother echo in my mind, "Well, old hag, how does it feel to pass the half-century mark?"

I arrange my piles of paper into fewer piles. I think how tired I am. I stay up late every night, but I can't seem to get my work done. My brain is mush. I ignore the clock and tell myself there is always tomorrow. In my mind, I push back the night. I can't allow the day to end. I refuse to shower in the morning; a shower signals the day has begun. I don't want the day to begin. If it begins, it's a day away from my favorite things. I hate the day. It is ugly. But, it can't end. It can't have passed, wasted.

Hating the day and hating the night, I have passed 50 years. I have been pretending time doesn't exist or was I deceiving myself into thinking I could slow it or stop it at will? I grab it with both hands and dig in my heels. Wait! I scream, in my mind. I just need to sprinkle a little sugar on top. There is no sugar, though. I have a cup of tea and hope it will appease me until tomorrow, when I'll force myself to shower and...begin the day.