Dear life outside of work:
I’m sorry you’ve been so neglected. I’m sorry your surfaces are covered in dust, your floors caked with pine needles and clumps of blonde hair. I’m sorry I do not remember your name, or how it knit together with my own. I’m sorry it’s been so long since I’ve listened to what you have to say. I’m sorry my path became so worn with routine that I couldn’t diverge from it, for fear I wouldn’t find my way back. I’m sorry I kept turning back. I’m sorry for all the times I tried and failed to unearth you again. I’m sorry for how long I insisted we could learn to make this work, that we could be like everyone else if we just pushed a little harder. I’m sorry I seem only to know how to count the cost, and that my reparations to you came slowly, if it all. I’m sorry. But I will learn how to make reparations. I will run the dust rags over every wall and countertop, and sweep the pine needles outside where they belong. I will vacuum and cut my hair from where it gets wound around the rollers, as many times as it takes until you’re clean. I will clear the road of brambles disguised as common sense and uncover you from where you’re buried with my lifeblood pumping always just a bit too quickly, and I’m sorry in advance for the times I’ll look back. But when you call to me from where I’ve stalled out along the path, I’ll turn your way. I will move in your uncharted direction. I will learn to remember your name.