may day

the first of may is a holiday.
yay

the quiet and the reclusion shattered in it's substance by the (forgotten alarm set by the son)'s sounding before seven

in the morning

the wife gets up, silences the sound that fails to wake the son from his teenage dreams
she goes back to bed

sleeps.

Get up slowly, it is bright outside, sunny but the old house is cold and so take time
bathroom, needs cleaning, old clothing, needs clearing and wahing, living room needs tidying so many old books and papers

Coffee in the morning strong and black
two slices of toast, some chocolate casually filched from the son's easter egg. The egg that was given to him by his uncle some days ago, and brought back from Ireland.
The senseless struggle between his relations over his long dead and never seen grandmother lets him suffer more than he will admit, it is hard for him to understand and impossible for him to feel. There is no sense of intuition.

The chocolate from the Easter egg is cheap and overly sweetened.
So much for theft.
The coffee is better and blacker.

Sit at the table in a chair from the beginning of the last century
write these notes.

They have attained an importance of their own.
Written for those unknown who read them
to be referred to by their writer, a measure of time going by.