Do you know how on calendars — those that hang from kitchen walls — the ones you wrote on as a child, carefully, hopefully… the way they have their Saturdays and Sundays sometimes cut in half. A diagonal line through your weekend. You don’t need these days — really — they aren’t even whole days.
And they don’t feel like whole days, that’s for sure, when it’s finals week and you are starving for a conversation deeper than jello. You hair hangs limp while the pages of pages of pages you have to write — you’re required to write — are flowing out like precious oils onto hot concrete, to make a stain, to make a splotch, but not to touch the skin that so badly needs it.
Words, you have so carefully loved and cultivated, being thrown carelessly into pages that a lazy professor wont read — you know he wont — you’ve tried him already. But you grew this vocabulary from scratch. Hungrily four year old self read “ant” then “aunt” and deciphered the difference until she knew words like “protagonist” and “patriarchy” and had opinions about them and their context. Until you were 18 and ready to use them. Until you were 26 and dying to share them. But the professor, he wont read them. Because he’s lazy.
He will, though, take up a whole weekend. He’ll do it to impress the board when they ask of his class requirements. He will have papers to show and to make it look like he cared. But he didn’t. If he had cared, he wouldn’t have stolen the weekend of a non-procrastinator, while she was searching for a face to face conversation that was deeper than a joke.
While she was hungry for an encounter with God.