I find myself in a type of day that I have not had in weeks. The sun is barking through my window blinds. My hair is clean because my hot water is working enough to wash it thoroughly.
And it is quiet.
I don't know why construction isn't resuming today, why the apartment below me isn't playing a symphony of slam and swear, but it is a welcome break. The restaurant across the street is closed today and so the exit to my apartment is not blocked by the scuttle of dozens of people pretending that waiting in a line doesn't count as proximity. I can't hear their conversation about pandemic fashion echoing through my kitchen, intermixed with the agitated Spanish from the construction workers below saying that that isn't the right fitting, Pedro.
And so.
What do I even do with a day like this?
Do I call it quiet even though the sun is dogging me, tugging my clean locks dry? Do I call it quiet even though the hustle of the street never stops, even though the wheels of the city are always grinding?
Do I not call it anything for fear it hears me and comes back?
I know it will come back. The work must continue. The people must eat. And this is the season when clouds are allowed to sidestep the incessant wagging of the sun. When they can cat themselves about, block your view, push water off the edge of the sky towards the ground.
Yes, it is still winter, for a few more fickle stretches.
So what do I do with a day like this?
Small mouse that I am, hands too small to pet the sun, eyes too small for anyone to see me watching, what do I do with a day like this?
I nest the memory of it close to me.
The bigger things will continue to do what they must, and I will be waterlogged or mazed as an afterthought, but today, the day is as small as I am.
The sun can't come all the way through my window. The noise turns to muffle as it sneaks into my home.
Everything works.
Everything works.
For this one blissful memory, everything works. I hold a small piece of this moment in my tiny hands for keeping.
No one will notice it gone.
