FRIDAY, SATURDAY, SUNDAY, MONDAY
On Saturday, I went on a ten-mile bike ride, half of which involved pedaling against the wind. I read. I sewed. I called my mom. I went shopping on the east side, for flowers and craft materials. I saw Hans once again. We joked in the car, laughed about who knows what, and ate po-boys at Papa Roux. That was Saturday.
On Sunday, I read Rainbow Rowell's Attachments. I devoured it, that book. My eyes raked across each page, vacuuming words. It had journalism. It had Omaha. It had email. It had relationships. It had references and subtleties to the metro area, to Sokol Auditorium and the World Herald and Sweet 98.5 and even 96.1's Pillow Talk, which I can promise that I, too, listened to. Oh, that book. When I finished it, I set it on the coffee table and stared, not ready to let go. Not ready to let go of Lincoln and Beth and all those words that reminded me so much of home. So I called my mom again. And I talked to Ty. And I sewed some more. And I went outside and planted the herbs and the flowers that I had bought the day before. And, later in the afternoon, I buried a bird. I had found it just outside the building, sideways and with stiff legs that were bent, held tight. It was dead, but I ached. Ached and tried, desperately, to remember the small poem that my mother used to read to me. It had appeared in a book of children's prayers, and had even featured a funeral for a similar creature of flight. But I couldn't remember the poem, and I couldn't find a shovel, and I couldn't let the dead bird alone, not with a trail of ants. And so I made a cardboard coffin and scooped the bird into it and brought it to my yard and, between the bushes, dug a hole with a garden hoe, asking God to Please forgive me for pestering the worms. And when the hole was big enough and deep enough, I placed the box in the hole and covered it with dirt and leaves and it was buried. That was Sunday.
And on Monday, it rained.