The nails are for tomorrow

It is easy to backslide, to wallow, to stagnate. Read the news, and you can easily hide under a blanket, no matter where you live. No place is safe. No place is easy. No place is doing “well.” If it is hot enough, there are plenty of excuses - a formula to stumble through the day, eat something, say a few words, and pretend that is more than what it is. We are all guilty of this surrender. It makes perfect sense, and is something we can share. There is so little loneliness in this pose.

All the same, on Saturday afternoon I made good on a promise I made to my wife and myself. That narrow pile of moulding that lingers on the far side of the living room was pulled into hand. The measuring tape snaps, and a pencil is sharpened within an inch of its life. I put some music on, just some Mazzy Star from back in the day to iron out the wrinkles and make me feel like I am 23 again, building circus scenery in Redhook, Brooklyn.

I gallop from the balcony, where the saw and clamps are set up, to the back bedroom, measuring twice and cutting once. The corners turn, and the walls are not straight but that never stopped me before. The couch stares back at me, empty for once.

I cut enough moulding to make it all of the way around the room, but it is almost seven now, and I don’t want to pull the hammer from the shelf to nail things in, out of respect for the neighbors. The nails are for tomorrow. The boulder has been pushed all of the way up the hill for today. I am starving, and sweaty, with sawdust sticking to the middle of back. My knees are still red from kneeling in corners, and I do not care. I accomplished some tiny something, and blotted out the debate results and the election predictions, the war talk, the hostage talk, the drone strikes and the empty promises, the new price of olive oil, the latest AI over-reach. No, that can all wait until tomorrow. Today I will eat well and drink well, after I sweep the balcony clean, after the saw is tucked away.