Grace used to meditate. She hasn’t done it for years and years, not since she met her husband and started a family. She won’t meditate today either. She won’t even think of meditation. If she did, she might be reminded of a paradox: how she would sit and sit and suddenly notice that her mind was still, and in that moment she would think, This is it! I’m meditating! which meant, of course, that she no longer was.
This is the day that Grace has both longed for and dreaded. She does not know that today is the day. If she knew, then this would no longer be that day.
She gets out of bed, and it is just the bed. She does not contemplate its size. She does not notice that she is not noticing the size of the bed. It is the bed from which she is rising, and she rises. That is all.
She makes tea, one bag in the one cup. She goes about her day. This is a day when she does not think of her son in Tucson or her daughter in Vancouver. If they were to call, if a postcard were to come from one of them, then today would no longer be the day that it is.
Grace has a list of things to do, and she does them. She starts a load of laundry, shops for groceries, fills the gas tank on the way home, and starts the second laundry load while the first dries. She waters the houseplants. One thing at a time, one after another. Later she makes dinner and watches one of her shows. She pours herself a glass of wine because she likes wine, not because it will help her sleep. She does not notice that her reason for pouring the wine is different now. She does not notice herself not noticing.
At the end of the day she is tired, and she sleeps. She does not even dream about him.
