This morning began with laughter —
a smile rising early at six,
though work did not call me,
only errands waiting quietly ahead.
A message came,
a simple promise of tomorrow’s meeting,
and I carried it with me like a light.
Still, the thought of cut wages
pressed like a stone in my pocket.
Outside, the rain was heavy.
I took a car instead of the bus,
the driver preferring silence
while I sat with my thoughts,
watching the city blur behind the window.
At the clinic,
doors closed for cleaning, ladders climbing,
faces passing with their own stories.
I waited to see the doctor,
who checked my breath, my throat, my heart —
and found them steady,
medicine offered with calm assurance.
A reminder echoed after:
to buy lunch for myself,
to print and guard my little certificate —
small tasks,
yet they feel like gentle anchors
to hold a wandering day in place.
And somewhere between
the rain, the waiting, the laughter,
I thought again of who I am —
a popular loner,
walking quietly among the noise.
