How Was Your Day?

An Essay by Alison Stine 


Rising too early after staying up too late to finish reading The Hounds of Winter—sleeping with novels now, next to me on the other’s side—deciding I can go another day without washing my hair, deciding three spoonfuls of oatmeal is enough for breakfast because that is all for which there is time, getting gas with the space-age California pumps, finding no good songs on the California radio on the hour drive in, finding a parking space and hurrying to arrive on time to work at the library, working at the library, underlining and researching and organizing books instead of reading them, wanting rather to be reading them or writing them, writing notes for later books to check out—wolves, thin space, green light, Lot—receiving a letter, crying but not showing it, eating two inches of red vegetable soup, running from the library to the car to the doctor, arriving late at the appointment, seeing the doctor, being told by the doctor my ear looks perfect, giving blood and cells for tests, worrying about tests, running back to the car, parking most illegally, climbing the stairs to the office, making copies in the office, chatting with the kind administrator, chatting with the minor poet, being introduced to the famous fiction writer by the minor poet, grabbing candy from the candy bowl, suddenly deciding to run as I make my way across the church courtyard because I want to run.

Because to see my silver slippers flashing and to hear their gentle slap is something, and I need something. I want to be something, rushing to the post office to wait in line, filling out the forms in line, kissing the letters for luck in line—yes, if you have ever received a letter or a postcard or a submission or an application from me, it bears, invisible, the mark of my lips; know this—getting the cashier who is chatty and always says to himself the place names of the destinations of my letters—Louisville, Gettysburg—rolling the words over his tongue, running into two friends, giving two friends rides home, taking my favorite street home, the long loopy Dolores where I always find good songs on the radio, where I know my way, coming home, skipping the bank and the grocery, finding myself here, writing a letter in answer, not being sure if I gave the right answer, if I can give the answer.

Wanting, wanting, wanting to be in water.

Or if not water, ink.