Sunday wandered into a week where it felt like it didn’t belong, shouldering it’s way into its position, crowded as usual by the days around it. It brought with it bright spring sun in preparation and practice for summer, looking to inflate its transit of heat and light at relentless apogee for the upcoming endless days under brittle blue skies. 

Mila was up early, showering, enjoying how the sunlight was shattered by the privacy glass in the bathroom. The door was wide open so music from the stereo in the living room would drift in; it was tuned to a weekly broadcast of classic blues and gospel music. She didn’t care much for a lot of it but when something raw and dirty, something that seemed to carry with it subversion and secret histories of illicit suffering, drawn from an America and a time in its past with which she was the most unfamiliar; it was odd, she thought, to be attracted to music with which she had no personal connection but the coarsely hewn rhythms and gravelly recordings and voices seemed to reach out to her anyway; there was scant other music that made her feel the way American blues did and every Sunday she reveled in it.

After the shower, she slowly wandered into the living room wearing a comfortable dark red robe, head tilted to one side, working a towel into her still damp and limply hanging hair. A particularly soulful gospel song filled up the room with supposed angels and an Abrahamic glow; Mila could almost feel the texture of the golden milk spun out through the widely open windows of the room. Working the towel around her hair still, she stood and faced the window, squinted down at the street below cooled and darkened by the shadow of a building across the way. She saw scraps of discarded history being urged along by sleepy breezes, dew-swept cars parked in narrow rank along the sidewalks, and only a handful of people at this early hour walking or driving on their way. She craved breakfast and her mind offered up a rolodex of possibilities from which she chose a café that specialized in egg-based breakfasts; eggs drowned in cheese, bell pepper, and jalapeño called out to her. A garbage truck came rumbling by, threatening to wake all with its rough, even mechanical thunder. She watched it go.

I haven’t written in two weeks due to illness but started writing again today. Unfortunately, none of it is worth posting so here’s something from a month ago (also not really worth posting but it’s been too long since the last posting).