A Day I Stayed

A day where I didn't pack the kit. That's worth writing down because it almost never happens.

I cleaned the holding room. Scrubbed trays, checked humidity, counted eighteen containers and looked at each one like I was confirming they were still mine. They are. I am responsible for eighteen small lives in plastic boxes and that is probably the most honest relationship I have running right now. Don't put that on a card.

Dad didn't ring. I checked the phone twice, which I am admitting to paper because paper doesn't smirk. Twice. As if I'm waiting. As if I'm not. I keep thinking about the voicemails I deleted. The almost-right things he said. I had the sound of him being reasonable in my hand and I chose to erase it. I keep wanting a villain. The cleanest version of a family story needs one and he isn't cooperating.

I scrolled past Tasha's bookshop post. Cat on a pile of Hemingway. I had a mean line ready in my head and I didn't post it. I didn't even think it all the way through. Not sure if that's growth or just tired.

The person I left in Cape Town — I started typing their name just now and stopped. Practising not opening that door. Some days I am better at it than other days. Today is a middle day.

I sat on the back step for a while and watched a lizard do nothing on the wall. Made tea and forgot it. I am trying to do nothing on purpose and it turns out doing nothing on purpose is its own kind of work. I keep thinking the degree I quit was just another clean departure. Tub, torch, gone. Same shape as everything else. Maybe I am not running right now. Maybe I just haven't left yet. Hard to tell the difference from the inside.

Eighteen containers. Not doing the maths.