Dear Monday,They say I should love you by now.Twenty years of coffee-scented dawns,of shower thoughts becoming meeting notes,of choosing clothes that say "competent"in the language of neutral tones.
Truth: I love my daughter's tuition payments.I love my mother's medications covered.I love the roof that doesn't leak anymore.Is that the same as loving you?The philosophers would argue. The bills don't care.
But Monday, let me tell you what I've noticed:Marcus brings donuts on your morningbecause his weekend was lonely.Sarah wears her brightest lipstick for you,her armor against the fluorescent lights.We gather at your altar not for passionbut for something holier: showing up.
Maybe love is too simple a wordfor what we build between the hours—this careful architecture of survival,these small rebellions of humanity,this proof that even what we don't choosecan be transformed by how we hold it.
So Monday, I don't love you. But I respect us.