Thursday morning:
I only have one coffee a day. Can't risk needing more so what I feel in shortage of caffeine I make up for with rage and anxiety. Nothing puts you to sleep faster than a clear schedule.
I keep my inbox clear, even if by compulsive clicking. So I notice the arrival of every little yellow envelope. Mike's departure's arrived at about 10:30. Compulsive click: a vaguely familiar smiling face to the left of the screen and a short paragraph that brings some random images into focus: Mike was part of our team... 2 years ago... brain tumor surgery... call from his mother... a memorial service will be held... link to givealittle.com. I don't have any clear memories of Mike. He left soon after I joined. But he was 34 and now he's lying in a metal drawer, cold and pale, no longer smiling. The little happy profile picture -because we all look happy on our first day at work- looks outrageously insensitive. I don't know where this strange sorrow fits so I click on the little bin in the corner of the screen and Mike stops smiling.
Friday afternoon:
Nothing in this freaking school design works and I haven't finished a single task today.
The little yellow envelope from Olive at 3 pm: "At Covid L1 we can resume social drinks. See you all at 4:30." (yay!)
Maybe if I just finish one task I can pretend celebrate the end of this hellish week. But first, the damned timesheet.
Yellow envelope at 4:10 pm - no little pictures: Just been informed... passed away... In respect for the colleagues across the hall... drinks canceled... no information at this time... more details on Monday... spend the time with your loved ones.
2 deaths in one week. Who died? Probably someone retired. Or just tired?
Monday morning:
Little yellow envelope at 8:30 am right after my only coffee. Compulsive click: Little smiling face to the left of the screen. Crap! This must be Friday's more information: Karl was an intern... part-time... 2 years... studying towards his... took his own life... brother called...
I can't stop staring back at the smiling face. My only encounter with Karl was when we briefly sat at the same couch during one of the most banal Christmas events. I couldn't stand in my heels, didn't really care to mingle, you couldn't hear a word in the centre of the chaos. We talked about the selection of desserts on my plate and I convinced him to go for the chocolate fondue and marshmallows. "Life is too short" I may have even said. It's my line for all dessert dilemmas. He left for the dessert table. I left when my cakes were finished. That concluded the overlap of our time alive. Now looking at his unwrinkled young smiling face on the screen l can't believe that's that for Karl.
Saturday of the week after:
How do you decide you've lived enough? Do you care what you do and who you see in your last minutes? Why would you? It's not like you will be looking back at the memories.
It's damn heartbreaking how the world goes on making their coffees, filling out timesheets, celebrating TGIFs, and worrying about housing market. Somewhere a cold metal drawer is closed every minute of every day and we just go on until it's ours.
Comments