Miracle

Dish with Design of Three Jars- Japan, Edo period (1615-1868)

Fill the jars with water, he said.

They did.

It was blue inside, the water, like the blue on the outside of the jars.

But when they poured, it ran red as flowers painted on one, as the design painted on another.

Fleeing The Storm and Bridges

New year, new challenge.

I bought a new page-a-day calendar today, the Metropolitan Museum of Art one. I'm going to attempt to write a few lines or tiny story based on each day's photograph. Since I'm already behind, let's have two of them in one post.

The Storm, Pierre-Auguste Cot

They had been meeting in secret for weeks. She knew he wasn't the match her family expected, but when he looked at her... she would plead a headache then slip out of the villa when no one was looking.

Today he had taken her out past the south fields and into the woods marking the end of her father's lands. She ignored the darkening skies, focusing instead on the blackness of his eyes. They reached a clearing and he spread the sheet on the ground. She went into his arms and the beat of her heart drowned out the thunder.

The rain began slowly. She didn't even feel it at first. He had been the one to pull away. "We have to go back."

Bridge Over a Pond of Water Lilies, Claude Monet

"He loves me, he loves me not." She stood on the bridge, dropping petal after petal into the water. She smiled. He loved her.

What "fine" really means

When you pass me in the hall and ask me how I am, and I say "fine," you smile and say something else polite.

I'm not fine.

I don't say that I'm dying inside today. That the way you speak annoys me. That talking to you is painful because of what we could have been to each other. That my back is aching from that last 100 pounds creeping up from my ass and more than anything I want to lie down and weep. That I'm afraid of never loving someone even though the thought of being that vulnerable scares me to death. That I keep an inventory of valuables in my head and wonder what I'll have to sell to pay the bills. That I'd love to look like you. That I don't know what I believe anymore. That I'm trying not to cry. That staying here one more minute is unbearable. That I will turn 30 soon and my last kiss was when I was 5 and that makes me sad. That I don't understand why you'd want to hug me. That I don't think I'm worth it because a guy told me once that I wasn't.

I don't say that I wish you'd ask me "are you sure" because you can see that my smile does not reach my eyes.

Thursday

Thursday never had enough money. She loved to go out with her friends, or alone, actually, any night of the week. She liked being at home sometimes to recover, but generally she liked being out on the town.

Thursday could be found in the bookstore, sipping lattes and flipping through British tabloids that were too expensive to purchase. She'd buy a book from the newly-remaindered table though. Or she would be glued to the brown leather sofa in the cigar shop not smoking but drinking wine and listening to the music. Maybe she'd be at a rooftop bar, watching the city as she downed another Dark & Stormy. If the weather was poor she'd be at the local indie theatre with popcorn and cherry Coke.

Thursday lived for Friday. Every other one, that is. Payday.

Wednesday

Wednesday's mother worried about her. She was always rushing around trying to please everyone who expected her company so she never got time to rest. Or meet any nice young men either, but Wednesday didn't much care about that anyway.

Wednesday was a good employee, showing up on time (or early) and leaving promptly at closing time (or a few minutes later). She had meetings to attend, or concerts, or church and choir rehearsal, or the gym in the evenings. She liked having things to do.

Wednesday resented having such a full schedule sometimes, though. She wished she could take off a few days for herself. A trip abroad might be nice, she thought. Or even a few states away. Something just for herself, to spend time doing what she wanted to do. Writing, reading, walking, eating... somewhere different with people she didn't know, or even alone. Yes, that's what Wednesday wanted. A chance to rediscover who she was, what she wanted to do, where she wanted to live.

Tuesday

Tuesday would describe herself as a cautious optimist. She had survived the first day of the workweek, and she was reasonably sure she'd finish it out without any major issues.

Tuesday was also possessed of a calm and reflective nature. She enjoyed coming home after work and taking her dog for a walk. The time spent walking around the pond in her neighborhood was the most precious of her week. She could think about her day, make plans, ponder dialogue for the book she was writing, and play with the puppy.

Tuesday wanted to have someone to share her life, small as it was. She had been on a few dates but she hadn't found anyone yet who suited her well enough. Maybe someday. Until then, she'd keep hoping, dreaming, and walking.

Monday

Monday is tired and a little angry. She wishes the weekend had lasted longer, even if only for a few hours. Somehow the last part of the morning speeds up and she lies in bed wondering if it's worth it. Getting up. Going to work. Talking on the phone, sending e-mails, catching up on the news. What's the point? She had read once that something was "unromantic as a Monday morning." She agrees- Monday mornings are the opposite of romantic. They are desperate, dark things.

Monday always wears black. She feels it matches her mood, and she's especially gratified when the weather coincides. Like today was chilly with swathes of cloud. Monday rushes from meeting to meeting with only the thought of 5.00 to get her through the day.

Monday lives for the evenings when she can stop rushing. She can sit with a book and a glass of wine. At last the day is over, and the night is beginning. She feels the darkness descend, and she smiles.