Just Another Day
Our days our organized around numerous small actions we repeat over and over. What’s your favorite daily ritual?
He stood by the sink, staring out the window, eyes not really seeing anything beyond the paint-scarred frame. His fingers traced the edges of the sink, metal bordering porcelain, both cold, one smooth as silk and the other an entirely different kind of smooth. It was the little things, he thought, the little daily rituals, which kept him sane.
He heard the kids upstairs, galloping back and forth when they should have been in bed, but he didn’t have the energy to trudge up the stairs and tuck them in again. Energy had abandoned him the moment he’d been told, thus the week of dishes in the sink, scattered food boxes, remain of the life he’d once lived scattered throughout the house.
The only things he did do now were the little things. Shower. Brush teeth. Meals, mainly take-out, unless a neighbor stopped by with food; dishes shoved in through doorways because no one wanted to be stuck in his circle of despair. Nobody knew what to say. They stayed as far away as possible.
He didn’t blame them. If fact, he’d rather be alone. Alone was his comfort; no pressure; no need to pretend. His mind returned to the only ritual he now practiced religiously. Rain or shine, head bowed, kneeling before the two tiny graves. Crying. Dying. Tiny little bodies in tiny little graves.
Upstairs, the noise of the children vanished and he knew, once again, they’d gone away, back to the tiny graves their mother had put them in. Two sharps cracks of a pistol.