Sometimes, even right before it really begins, you’ve got a feeling how the week’s going to go.
I look in the mirror early on a Tuesday morning, the bedhead looking more like a monsterhead, and I look right into that water-splattered mirror.
And tell the woman looking back at me how the next seven days are likely to go down — are going to likely try to take me down.
The mail’s going to bring bills and a sucker punch first thing.
And he’s going to the say wrong thing or nothing or claim he never heard you say a thing, and every time you look away from the clock, time will just up and suck down whole hours like an industrial shop vac and you’ll be left wondering where into the bowels of the world did this week really go?
The inner chamber of the microwave is going to look like a gory battlefield of losing, epic proportions by Tuesday.
You’ll have to clean a toilet. Or regret that you didn’t. The laundry’s going to laugh at you.
And by Thursday, you’ll pull a three inch hair from the chin and you’ll replay who you talked to on Monday and Tuesday this week who must have saw it at an inch and a half.
Right there at the mirror, right at the beginning, the week begins to unfurl in slow, in hope.
And that’s what I whisper into the mirror: