Mike Gray
The Stoic
Birds are starting outside already, somewhere in the languid cool.
My arms stretch overhead, body sleeved in fatigue, tired skin luxuriating beneath the sheets.
A good day to silence the alarm. Burrow and nestle. Be my bed self a little longer.
Then all too soon it’s a bright day, full sun glimpsed through creased eyes, and when I register my daughter’s lonely moans from another room, I’m immediately in a is-that-really-the-time? day. A day to lunge out of bed, wipe at her tears, quell the “tum rums” with a rushed breakfast, which means it’s fast becoming a day to overcompensate, an offset-my-selfishness-with-extra-syrup-and-waffles day. Obviously not a thinking-clearly day, though, because now we have a day with too much sugared energy, shrieked lyrics, improvised kitchen dance-offs that make me feel where the stitches were.
Several hours spent at this pitch, tending to her ecstasies, keeping her clear of screens because I’d like to make it a bonding day, if I can, an activity day, maybe in some peripheral fashion an educational day, but it’s exhausting to the marrow and leads to more, always more — once we’ve colored the alphabet on the kitchen floor, she wants to paint wants to play in the sink wants blocks wants snacks wants my phone wants cartoons wants daddy when denied anything she wants, which is everything.
Feeling submerged, I secure her in the highchair for a late lunch and find a steady moment alone, in the living room. Old cereal crumbed underfoot, cold coffee in hand. A window day. An I’d-rather-be-doing-such-and-such-instead day.
Peppered seams of gray snow furrow the lawn, refusing to melt. I watch some neighbor getting walked by his husky, the animal stopping several times to piss on our easement, and I tell myself it can still be an all-is-not-lost day, because we can get out of the house for a bit. Maybe a light walk in the mall, then on to the grocery, but somehow it develops into an ill-tempered, intolerant day. Everything’s a skirmish. Every store, every aisle. A day for wailing in the backseat at random frustrations, like the rasp of her coat fabric or the chevrons on my seatbelt pillow. And it continues when we’re back home — an inconsolable, refusing-to-nap day, so I cave and let it devolve into an incentivized day. A day for watching cartoons in the other room so I can put the groceries away in peace. A finally-I-can-get-something-done day, though now it’s a day of elongating shadows, too little time, feeling hurried and anxious and, even at this late stage, nauseous. Then on the counter I see it’s also been a day of missed dosages: my tamoxifen and lisinopril, some leftover aprepitant, all carelessly left within her reach.
In no time it’s a five-thirty day. A squeal-up-the-driveway day, which means elsewhere it’s been a rough day.
His keys hassle the front door open. In the foyer, I quickly make it a “how-was-your-day” day and see that it’s apparently been a day to sigh at. To shake his head at. A “wait-till-you-hear-about-this-shit” day, hence it becomes a listening day, a late-dinner day, and soon afterward a “could-you-please-see-her-to-bed-so-I-can-finally-rest” day.
So at the end of the day, if he remembers to ask, I’ll make it easy for him.
Say it’s been a fine day.
Mike Gray received his MFA from Florida Atlantic University in 2012 and currently serves as Professor of English at Brightpoint Community College in Virginia. His fiction has appeared in The Baltimore Review, Carte Blanche, Coe Review, Appalachian Heritage, and others.