The End of the Day

Photograph from Mike Melman, The Quiet Hours: City Photographs (Univ. of Minn. Press, 2003). EAST SEVENTH STREET BETWEEN WALL AND WACOUTA STREETS, ST. PAUL, 2001

Yesterday was a day-full, full of depth and gravity like the snow-weighted Midwestern skies before the flakes fall. It was an enlightening day, one where I noticed the calm moments as much as I did the action. As I drove home to bed, my mood was like the city at night—quiet and luminous and still faintly resonating with the activities of the day.

You know how your days can be a frenzy, as if you are the modern-day version of the frantic party-line phone operator, cords and plugs stopgapping the blinking lights of your digital switchboard? Twelve separate e-mails from one author--you read seven and give up on the last five, at least for the morning. But then you keep returning to the boldfaced Inbox (You have five unread e-mails) and discover over and over those same five messages you put aside earlier. The Spam folder highlights subject lines like
“Tired of being the little guy?”
“Trouble keeping your man?”
“Looktin for trim you waistline?”
and you think maybe they all actually have some meaning for you? Cryptic subliminal messages planted by your computer to warn you that your life isn’t as swell as you imagine. You’re eating smoked ham sandwiches again because that’s the least messy lunch you can can munch while working at your desk on the overdue manuscript; even then you get mayonnaise on the title page.

Wednesday I was all talk and no action, it seemed, and I actually observed myself saying, “I make content marketable.” Why did I say that? Why would I say that?

But yesterday I read diligently at my desk, a revised manuscript carefully prepared by a man who has a monumental story to tell. He trusted me during my first edit of his work. He trusted me enough to send the submission back again. I read for hours straight through the morning, into the afternoon. I wrote notes. “Powerful.” “Compelling.” His work made me think of times in our state decades ago. It made me think of times in my own life. It made me want to be a better person. I can’t think of more honorable work than that.

When I got into my car at the end of the workday, just as the sunset was streaking the sky with stripes of pink and gray clouds, my face was flushed and hot with the weight of that powerful tale. I’ll call it "referred energy." I work mostly alone at my desk on these editing days and I hadn’t the chance to transfer this deep emotion in conversation or dialogue. I laid my hot cheeks against the cold steering wheel and waited.

On the ride home I listened to the soundtrack to the locally produced movie Sweet Land and the music was a perfect match.

http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/markorton

Later, at the end of a night listening to music at The Times and sharing tapas with my grown daughter—who is so charmingly grown—I drove slowly through the city. The café windows were backlit by storeroom lights. The tall church steeples cut black witches’ hats into the faint sky. I could not see the moon but I think it could see me. My daughter at five used to say, “Wherever we go the moon follows us. Look. See.” I came into our quiet house where the husband and son were fast asleep. I folded up the couch throws and looked out the front door window before turning off the porch light. The night would be fine without it.