The Remains of the Weekend
I'm sitting in the dark of the junk room on a quiet Sunday evening. My other half and oldest daughter are at the far end of the country, staying in a rented cottage. They will return at some point tomorrow evening. The younger children are already in bed, their school clothes washed, their school bags packed – all that remains is to make breakfasts and packed lunches in the morning.
Elsewhere in the house the washing machine and tumble dryer are rumbling away – continuing my relentless quest to reach the bottom of the dirty washing basket. We are closer than we have been in months. It's funny – while standing in the kitchen, making myself a cup of tea earlier this evening, I caught myself thinking about this weekend – about how easily I fall into the pattern of just doing chores, one after another – not leaving the house – just moving from one thing to the next, and not really sitting down to read, or watch a movie, or whatever. There's always something. I'm not sure I have a point I'm trying to make either – it's just something that crossed my mind.
I'm looking at the clock, and figuring I have a couple of hours before I'll turn in for the night. I have a couple of TV shows to catch up on, and a few friends to write emails to. I don't really know why I bother – very few people bother with me, but it feels like somebody has to, right? If nobody did the reaching out, then the world would be a pretty lonely place. I wonder though – if I just stopped trying, would anybody get in touch with me at all? Or is this all I am – some random far flung guy, putting one foot in front of the other each day, getting up the next day, and repeating it – over, and over, and over.