on a thursday, i walk into the university center lobby and receive the heavy, silver bubble-wrapped package from jes.
it’s a typewriter.
i’m a writer.
on a thursday, i wake up from the bubble of anxiety i have cocooned myself in since the night before, and i tell myself that i’m a writer and that i have to trust myself to make it through.
on a thursday, i walk the five blocks back to the dorm, and my arms ache and i know i won’t be able to move them after i let go.
on a thursday, i take off my jacket because it’s too hot for one. i set the heavy, silver bubble-wrapped package on my bed because i can’t find anywhere else to put it.
on a thursday, i feel a growing transparent ease spread through my chest like a sip of warm milk.
on a thursday, i use a typewriter for the first time in years. i remember when i was younger, when i marveled at the old typewriter we kept in the garage. i remember when i used to load paper and write stories and novels and epics.
on a thursday, i feel a sense of future. a sense of it’s going to be okay. a sense of today is good. a sense of ‘you are good’.
i am okay.
on a thursday, i find a way out. i stack the typewriter on top of the cd player. i turn on the radio and tune it to a station that plays eric clapton and queen. i think of home. i want a way out. i think of monday. i convince myself to be okay.
on a thursday, i become a child. a writer. i become a person who listens to 80s music and laughs with their hands on their chest and mouth wide open. someone who, i assume, laughs like that only because they are comfortable enough to do so. i hope.
only for a second.
but i suppose that’s irrelevant.
on a thursday, i find a way out. i begin typing, unsticking the y and u every few sentences, and i convince myself to be okay.
i am okay.
on a thursday, i am okay.
on monday, i will be okay. and after—
i will be okay.