My Progress Record: Sunday Evening of the Second Week of Absence

At 8:14 in the evening, I clocked out at the library front desk with Ms. Earnestine. She had needed me to stay over the extra 14 minutes to finish re-shelving the religious texts section. At some point during the course of the day, all books but a few select editions of the Kings James Bible had been turned around and shelved with the pages facing out. I had begun turning them about at 7:23 but the task took much longer than either of us had anticipated as some had also been taken completely out of order and others had been re-shelved in a similar manner in the young adult section. Earnestine was much kinder than the cook and promised that the extra time I took to care for the maintenance of order in the library would be repaid in the equivalent amount at month’s end.

Going over to my desk in the children’s section, I picked up the two books I had set aside to read to Eliza tonight, wrote my name out on the book tag, stamped the due date, and wrote out the books’ catalog numbers so I’d be able to know which books were checked out. At 8:18, after all clocking out and book business had been attended to, I walked out of the library and started heading across the town to your mother’s house to collect Eliza and take her home. If you want Eliza to remember you, you ought to start spending less time traveling. You’ve been gone for the past two weeks. It’s hardly fair on her.

There was no wind. The still, cold air felt heavier than the comforting warmth of the musty library. As I made my daily trek to your mother’s house through the unsettling stillness, I allowed myself to calculate the earnings of this week. $162 every day this week from the library. $168 from that awful kitchen. That’s $330 per day. That makes $2310 this week. I’d be able to afford the rent this month. $2140 in rent payment would leave $170 to buy groceries, new clothing for Eliza, and the electricity bill.

Swept up in all my thoughts, I nearly trampled a woman curled up on a street corner enveloped in a particularly biting frost. After inquiring if she was alright, I offered her a hand and my rather worn coat and helped her stand up. Together, we walked over to the bench across from the cemetery where the flickering orange and yellow lights of flames licking the dry air danced. The entrance to the cemetery was always guarded by a metal plate of flames which sat on a pedestal seventeen steps from its gates. I got her to sit down, offering to give her change if she needed to call anyone there was a payphone about a block away. I checked the time, 8:26. Your mother would be wondering where I was.

I sat with her a bit longer, and talked about common, everyday things as she was obviously uncomfortable discussing whatever had left her curled up protectively on a sidewalk curb. Her name was Serenity, she translated ancient texts for a living, and she was out to collect a book from the post office. She didn’t seem intoxicated or otherwise mentally absent, just unsettled. Once I was sure she would be able to make it home, I set off to collect Eliza. Serenity offered me back my coat and I gave her my address to return it. She seemed much more need in of the comfort offered by the little warmth it offered than I did.

At 8:43, I arrived at your mother’s house. I apologized for my tardiness, explaining the lateness and the absence of my coat on such a cold day. Your mother saw the disappearance of my coat as a good thing, saying it would give me a reason to get something a little more up to par of societal expectations for appearance than the five year old coat you had given me when I had been sitting outside the door of my first college class, counting the bricks in the archway of the entrance.

She welcomed me in and we sat, discussing the day as I bounced Eliza up and down in my lap. Your mother, for all of her goodness, understands very little about the economic state of a lower-middle class single parent. After warding off invitations to attend the symphony with her, saying that Eliza couldn’t yet get to sleep without me, forgoing mention of my inability to afford the tickets, let alone a babysitter, I set Eliza down on the carpet so I could gather up her diaper bag and empty Gerber jars.

After everything had been put into its place, I turned around to collect my daughter. She was cruising along the edge of the couch, her grandmother cleaning up the dinner dishes in the next room. I called out to Eliza, saying it was time to go. She twisted around, lifting one hand off the couch to be able to turn around to where my voice was coming from. Her smile lit up the room, bringing warmth to the oddly cold day. Then she lifted up her other hand.

And then she took a wobbly step. I glanced at the time. 9:06, nearly an hour after her bedtime, on February 6th. My beautiful daughter’s first step. Dumbfounded in awe of her newfound ability, I was so grateful I had been there to witness it.