by Erin Donohue
Erin Donohue is a writer and editor from Aotearoa, New Zealand. Her first novel was published in 2017 and was a finalist in the NZCYA Book Awards. She is currently working on a collection of personal essays.
working from home
time puddles around me. bleak and thick.
the seconds stretch on like warm chewing gum.
until they are minutes and the minutes stretch
on until they are hours. then suddenly: days.
i turn on tracked changes and add commas.
i fix spelling and pretend to be proficient on InDesign.
i type my dumb little emails on my dumb little computer.
someone at work starts mindfulness mondays.
i take photos of the sky every evening.
even when the sky isn’t there.
i feed my cat every morning. her incessant but
politely restrained howls when i am late to wake.
i download an app that translates her different
meows into english. she says, i’m hungry.
she says, i’m hunting. she says, quietly,
i love you. i’m here. can you see me?
sometimes i stand outside and listen to the birds.
let the breeze bite at me. but mostly i dont.
i run for the same bus to therapy
every week and nearly miss it every week.
when i arrive
i try to coax myself into the room
but i don’t come when i am called.
not even for a treat. she says
what would you like to work on today?
and i watch from the door as i shrug.
she spends the hour trying to draw me
out of myself. i pay her too much money and leave.
i go to glassons, farmers, david jones.
dizzy with the urge to buy something new and
bright and good. and then
i go back home: to my simple little life.
where i sit and wait
for him to come home and make me real.