Slept in today, but don't worry, I'll never make
a habit of it. Too much to do, always. Always.
Went to Staples for box and bubble wrap, then back
to mail it, packed with presents, industrial-strength taped
with love. I got the name wrong, if you can believe it,
forgot for just a minute she'd taken back her maiden name.
The corrected box sat on the counter
silently chastising me. Not only that, but UPS
wouldn't take the address. Just wouldn't.
Flatly refused as a line built up behind me.
Various combinationsvof apartment designations.
How can an address not be valid, when there's a street
by that name and number, an apartment in
which people really live? They are valid,
and so is their address. Finally,
wishing I'd gone government from the start - UPS
didn't hire me that Christmas I applied when we
needed the money, so why should I give them
mine now? - I left. Left my sunglasses, too,
which meant a return visit, but that came later.
Picked up chicken soup, hoping it would
work its magic on my cold. Small fortune
in over-the-counter remedies, determined
to be better by the weekend. Went back for
sunglasses, drove to the Cuban diner that
tucks a post office into one corner. The address
was fine for THEM. Cashed checks at the
bank and thought of the teller in Carolina that
not only didn't need my license, but gave me a
nickname. Watched part of movie while I ate lunch,
not chicken soup after all, that'll be dinner.
A whole box of cheese bread just because I
could. Brief phone call. Word games on the phone.
That's all I've done today. Even God rested one
day in seven. I think I was due.
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012
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