a day inside with the sun on the out just doesn’t sit right, so i bundle up all plaid, faux fur, and mush-resistant and head for the bank.
check in hand, i hope to raise both bottom line and the meter on my fresh-air tank. at least just a little.
i tumble down the stairs, not quite literally but with a wonder as to how i haven’t yet, literally.
out one door and then the other, i pause before closing the mosaic tiles of the foyer to the crisp air. the mail. i peak inside the charming box – a daily reminder of the history in these walls, beneath my feet, in this little town of bethlehem.
behind the squeaky hatch i hope to find a gift from netflix or a long-lost pen pal. instead i find another check. three times the first. long before i even started worrying about its arrival – here it is. paper to flesh. repayment for expenses, those floating debts we pretend not to mind, that buzz like horseflies overhead until pierced by the poisoned dart of a check like this one. i squeeze my eyes shut and hope happy hopes for the writer of checks, so prompt, so efficient, so fair.
what a coincidence, i think. i was just heading to the bank.
and just like that the world spins ’round. it feels so even, so organized, so simple. i walk down market, to main, to broad. and then return. choosing different crosswalks to throw off the guards, who usher children caddy-corner across whole intersections of melted snow.
i wonder, then, if this is the day when un-etched hopes are realized. the kind of day words like serendipitous were made to roll around in.
as i pass the mail once again and tumble up the same stairs, i get to the heart of it, to the most important question: if i think hard enough about going to the store, list and reusable bags in tow, will i find dinner’s arrived on our doorstep, all wrapped up in a shiny red bow?