What Wednesday Means

Wednesday is a day that tastes like dry-bread lunch, Wednesday afternoons especially smell of warm peanut-butter and dampish days that smugly refuse to rain. Nobody asked my mother if she wanted her first child born on a Wednesday. Nobody asked me if I wouldn't have preferred Thursday. I wanted far to go, goddamn it1 I want far to go as my birthright, why don't I at least get the official sanction of a prophecy backing a fate I know or hope to be true. far to go has some hopeful implications, after all, which full of woe is completely lacking in. Far to go implies you'll know when you get there, doesn't it, implies a rough and ready life with strange adventures and journeys that unfold like stories, Thursday is practically born with interesting stories of itself to tell schoolmates and grandchildren, but far to also implies eventual rest, eventual destination, eventual success damnit, and rest and surcease from the nagging that comes like a migraine to the back of your sleepless head and whines, maybe you're not there after all, maybe you never did it, what you set out to reach, maybe you've just been fooling yourself all these years. Far to go suggests an eventual end to the refrain of 'I don't belong here'. My little sister, the ungratefully lucky little bitch, got Friday and is she ever loving and giving. She could hardly help it, my sister seems to have been born into a world that was just waiting for an adorable little girl-child to come along, my sister has always known a world that likes her, that's glad she's here. Everyone she meets is appropriately loving and giving, and my sister loves everyone as though she had one of those ever-refilling fairy-tale bags to draw from. My baby sister loves everyone and it doesn't cost her a thing, and she is never without an ample stock to give, which she does, kindly and freely, with generous smiles, knowing she will never be left with empty hands.