Dear Friday

Dear Friday,

I noticed your arrival quiet and swift this week after several long days, many vibrant conversations, and just as many if not more miles on our car. I would not change a thing about you today: an early morning meeting canceled, a late morning meeting kind and familiar, a pause to hug and say a simple goodbye to a dear friend.

Sitting here I notice the trees baring their leaves on lawns and patios, the crystal glare perched inside the corner between east and west, metal and glass, the passing of time. This day is especially gracious as it begins a long weekend cuddled up in covers, crumbs, and kids, a date night with the one I love; and time, time to just watch the leaves shed their green, turning brown and crisp. I can’t say I even mind the cold down my striped cotton collar as long as the sun is shining, and today it is as full and golden among the blurry clouds as it is broken up in the thick and narrow branches outside my window.

I am thankful.


For me, these kinds of details make correspondence one of the essential parts of a writer’s work—even if we’re living in a time when messages are getting shorter and shorter, almost telegraphic. Well, our correspondence will allow us to flesh things out some, and show a little humanity.  —Alain Mabanckou


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