Seven Days in May
I attempted to imitate E.B. White’s style in the following piece. Several of his essays, like “A Week in April,” describe a week in White’s life. The pieces offer thoughtful reflection on every day occurrences, and they attempted to make sense of the darker things of the world, something I have tried to duplicate. White also utilizes personification in most of his work. I included that in my essay, as well as simple, approachable language. White uses grammar correctly, except when he wants to stress a point. He then usually uses a fragment, as do I. One of my biggest issues with writing this piece was determining what tense it should be in. White manages to use an “active-past” voice, in that he implies things have happened in the past, but they could just as easily be occurring right now.
Sunday—I woke with Sunday sitting on my chest, rendering me useless of any meaningful action today. The gloom of the day permeated through the cracks in our house, settling itself on our windows and across our doors, so that any light from the outside world was colored by the gloom’s grayness. I am not bothered. Melancholy can be useful, as it makes everything appear clearer and cleaner when it passes. It appeared today that it would give the world a good scrubbing. I allowed the introspection and meditation that comes with melancholy to wash over me. It seems like a useful emotion to have while at Mass. The solemnity of the rites and rituals are more acute and more reverent on melancholy days.
Monday—I go for a run this morning. I take a little path behind my house, and, if I am feeling extra energized, I run past a working 1930’s farm. It is one of those sights that lifts you out of the present and plunges you into the past. It is not, however, the place to run through. Cows and horses have a special stink about them that makes breathing quite unpleasant. I ran past the giant manure pile today like I was running from some lover of mine—my eyes streamed with tears, I clutched my heart, and I cursed “those damn pigs!” As terrible as running through the farm can be, I sometimes think about being in a place where I could not run. In the city, a little girl was shot while walking home from school. Caught in gang crossfire. People in those neighborhoods cannot simply step outside and go for a jog. It’s a shame too. I think a lot of anger can be washed away with a long, sweaty run.
Tuesday—Max, my rescue dog, has taken it upon himself to eradicate the house of any closed doors. It seems that he prefers a breeze to move about as it wills. Sometimes, he pushes them right on open, but he seems to prefer moaning until they bend to his cries. I was confused when I came across him whining at my closet door, but then quickly realized my shoes and belts can feel stuffy if left without light for too long. It seems that Max knows what he is doing. He graciously let me come along on this important errand of his, and I spent a long while helping him accomplish his goal of an open home.
Wednesday— I work at a counseling agency, and I think most people would be upset to learn that their therapist is in much of need of therapy as they are. I’ve taken on the role of the therapists’ shrink, a position in which the hours do not show up on my paycheck. That’s not to say that I do not enjoy my work at the agency—on the contrary, I find that I work among the most interesting of professionals. Out of all the occupations, therapists are the most acutely human. They truly are invested in their clients’ lives and (at least where I work) they love what they do. However, they seem to spend a lot of time mulling over their own pain in order to forget about others. Besides, therapists find a professional who has taken their own advice to be rather trying. It makes for much less interesting conversation when they are breathing through their frustration or closing their eyes and going to a beach somewhere. Usually, therapists are the most opinionated bunch out there; get a group of them together and if they weren’t all therapists and thus used high doses of medication they’d be at each other’s throats during morning meetings. And that is just when discussing where to get lunch that afternoon.
Thursday—More death in the Middle East. My neighbor told me that her son had been caught in crossfire, but he was okay. The staff sergeant next to him had been shot dead. They had been out on patrol, and were sharing a cigarette. One minute the sergeant handed her son the smoke, and the next minute the sergeant was dead, the son still holding his comrade’s taste in his mouth.
Friday—May is meandering her way slowly towards us. Sometimes she trips, and leaves us with a dull, rainy day, but today she sprinted at us, exploding with a bright, fresh light. Tree leaves are sharply outlined against the blue sky. The air crackles with excitement, a warm wind spinning and swirling its way through my hair. Windows are opened to let in the sound of the day. I go for another run, and grin at everyone I pass. They return my smile with a nod: yes, they say, isn’t it a lovely day to be alive?
Saturday—I spend my morning at the shop. I always leave stinking of coffee and my ears whirling with the busy espresso machine, but I find it comforting. If there is one taste that attaches me to the day, it is the bitter burnt edge of a roasted cacao bean, properly ground and poured steaming hot into a ceramic mug. I hardly like the flavor, but I drink it anyway. There is something about a coffee shop that stays idealistic for me, even if I have been shown all its secrets. I only date baristas because working in a coffee shop automatically makes one more romantic. I have yet to be proven wrong on that count.
Monday—I go for a run this morning. I take a little path behind my house, and, if I am feeling extra energized, I run past a working 1930’s farm. It is one of those sights that lifts you out of the present and plunges you into the past. It is not, however, the place to run through. Cows and horses have a special stink about them that makes breathing quite unpleasant. I ran past the giant manure pile today like I was running from some lover of mine—my eyes streamed with tears, I clutched my heart, and I cursed “those damn pigs!” As terrible as running through the farm can be, I sometimes think about being in a place where I could not run. In the city, a little girl was shot while walking home from school. Caught in gang crossfire. People in those neighborhoods cannot simply step outside and go for a jog. It’s a shame too. I think a lot of anger can be washed away with a long, sweaty run.
Tuesday—Max, my rescue dog, has taken it upon himself to eradicate the house of any closed doors. It seems that he prefers a breeze to move about as it wills. Sometimes, he pushes them right on open, but he seems to prefer moaning until they bend to his cries. I was confused when I came across him whining at my closet door, but then quickly realized my shoes and belts can feel stuffy if left without light for too long. It seems that Max knows what he is doing. He graciously let me come along on this important errand of his, and I spent a long while helping him accomplish his goal of an open home.
Wednesday— I work at a counseling agency, and I think most people would be upset to learn that their therapist is in much of need of therapy as they are. I’ve taken on the role of the therapists’ shrink, a position in which the hours do not show up on my paycheck. That’s not to say that I do not enjoy my work at the agency—on the contrary, I find that I work among the most interesting of professionals. Out of all the occupations, therapists are the most acutely human. They truly are invested in their clients’ lives and (at least where I work) they love what they do. However, they seem to spend a lot of time mulling over their own pain in order to forget about others. Besides, therapists find a professional who has taken their own advice to be rather trying. It makes for much less interesting conversation when they are breathing through their frustration or closing their eyes and going to a beach somewhere. Usually, therapists are the most opinionated bunch out there; get a group of them together and if they weren’t all therapists and thus used high doses of medication they’d be at each other’s throats during morning meetings. And that is just when discussing where to get lunch that afternoon.
Thursday—More death in the Middle East. My neighbor told me that her son had been caught in crossfire, but he was okay. The staff sergeant next to him had been shot dead. They had been out on patrol, and were sharing a cigarette. One minute the sergeant handed her son the smoke, and the next minute the sergeant was dead, the son still holding his comrade’s taste in his mouth.
Friday—May is meandering her way slowly towards us. Sometimes she trips, and leaves us with a dull, rainy day, but today she sprinted at us, exploding with a bright, fresh light. Tree leaves are sharply outlined against the blue sky. The air crackles with excitement, a warm wind spinning and swirling its way through my hair. Windows are opened to let in the sound of the day. I go for another run, and grin at everyone I pass. They return my smile with a nod: yes, they say, isn’t it a lovely day to be alive?
Saturday—I spend my morning at the shop. I always leave stinking of coffee and my ears whirling with the busy espresso machine, but I find it comforting. If there is one taste that attaches me to the day, it is the bitter burnt edge of a roasted cacao bean, properly ground and poured steaming hot into a ceramic mug. I hardly like the flavor, but I drink it anyway. There is something about a coffee shop that stays idealistic for me, even if I have been shown all its secrets. I only date baristas because working in a coffee shop automatically makes one more romantic. I have yet to be proven wrong on that count.