See You Monday

by Donna Taylor

The guy predicted the end of the world on the “All-Weather-Network” this morning.
“He’s wrong about rain most of the time,” my husband said, hopeful.
People took the day off anyway. Just in case.
The last day of all should not be spent with people you loathe in secret.

My daughter Gina goes to school across the country, 2000 miles away.
She wanted to get away and now she wants to get home.
Like it would change anything.
At this point, flights were scarce.

On the phone she said bitterly, “They gave me a ticket for Monday.”
And then added, “I think I just got screwed.”
Doesn’t matter now, I thought and then assured that Monday was fine.
“See you Monday,” and hung up wanting to believe it would be so.

We pretended to go about our business undeterred, but there was this need to be near one another.
Odd things occurred--sounds not typical to this neighborhood.
Gunshots, sometimes.
More times there was crying. Yelling.
Some people laughed crazily and some panicked. Both were scary.

The twins played on the rug too quietly.
They sensed something was not right, yet they were too small to know exactly what.
It was early spring, warm but most folks stayed inside,
As if being under roof would be safer.

We ate dinner, not talking much.
Who could speak of plans or appointments now? Important things had become pointless.
“Gina’s not going to make it in time,” my husband said sadly.
“I guess not,” I replied with a shrug.

What difference did it make anyway, I wondered,
To create a memory or a snapshot moment to have for only an hour or two?
Then I added with false cheer, “We’ll see her Monday.”
“Okay.” He went on eating.

We had party food--pizza and chips
And ice cream milkshakes with too much whipped cream.
Afterward, my husband and I drank the rest of the scotch
That we had bought during the last holidays.

Later we watched silly repeats of sitcoms
And we held hands too tightly,
Smiled through gritted teeth.
And waited.

“He has been wrong before,” my husband said, meaning the dopey weather guy.
“He has,” I agreed.
I went upstairs and kissed our sleeping boys
And wondered where memories go when the world ends.

Gina called and we talked through tears like tomorrow would be here after all
Before she hung up I said, “See you Monday. Somewhere.”
And it began, as if swallowed by a black hole; as if sliding down a drain.
“See you Monday,” she said and was gone.