the Monday me

I once read a story about a girl.  At age 15, she wrote herself a letter to be opened by her older self - whom she expected to have a wildly successful life by that point.  She wrote to her future, wiser self to remind her of the girl she'd once been: of her optimism and ambition.  She wrote, thinking of herself years down the road, not knowing the specifics but sure of her future all the same.

I do something like that sometimes.  I envision myself in a week - a day - a few hours.   But I don't write to myself...no, not that.  Instead, I do chores.

I sweep the floor.  Load the dishwasher...or empty it.  I scrub the pots.  Feed the sourdough starter so that it will be ready for breakfast.

I tidy the books and check the room.

I set out my favorite mug and load the coffee pot with my current Teeccino.

I've done all I can for her, the Monday me.   I've set the stage, put things in motion, looked ahead.  I've taken care of her as best I know how.

And I've written her a sort of love letter.

Goodnight,  Sunday me...