7 weeks

Everything talks to me about seven weeks. It’s the only topic of conversation. As I put on my shoes, “Are there seven weeks left? Are there seven weeks of tread still on these shoes?” They ask.

“I think so.” I never planned for these shoes to return home with me. I bought them for a sacrifice. They will get me through the next seven weeks and that will be it.

The bike I bought has almost no tread on the tires. The front tire will make it, I am almost sure. The back tire is cause for concern. When I ride, it talks to me. “Seven weeks? What about today?” It holds air, but the once deep tread is worn to near the treads holding the tube to the rim. In the middle of my ride it fools me; I feel like I am riding in sand. With each pedal I feel it is slow and sluggish. I look. My eyes tell me tomorrow or the next day, probably next week, but maybe seven weeks.

The back brakes, they are done. Every time my left hand squeezes, they tell me how finished they are. But the metal plates have yet to meet the rim. Perhaps a tightened screw will do? Another week, perhaps?

Laundry soap laughs, “Seven weeks? No problem! Three months is more like it.” It will be another thing to leave behind.

Shampoo isn’t as confident, but still it is pretty sure. Shampoo will join the sacrifice with the shoes and the soap.

The wet season will see me through the last seven weeks. It torments me at night with a whisper through the window. “Don’t worry about seven weeks, tomorrow is what you should worry about.” Tomorrow I will ride to work in the rain. Not only tomorrow, but most of the next seven weeks. The wet season makes me pack extra clothes to work, rain jacket, rain pants, dry socks; things to change into once I get to work. The wet season talks to me through the TV weatherman, too. “Next week will be wet. . . There is the fifth typhoon of the season working its way up from the Philippines. . .” The wet season will ride with me for seven weeks.

There are others that are more important: humor and patience. “Seven weeks?” they ask. “Are you sure?”

I wonder if there is enough of them to make it. Is there enough of them to push me through the next seven weeks? Is there enough patience for seven weeks of, “Hello, how are you? Fine thank you, and you?” Seven weeks more of following the script, the script repeated a hundred times a day, a script that rarely, if ever, changes.

But I also look and see seven weeks in the eyes of the kids. Their eyes speak much more than they can. They show me excitement and enthusiasm. Their eyes betray the script; they don’t follow the script. They joke and play. They welcome me everyday after a bike ride that I will make only for another seven weeks. They give me enough patience and humor to make through each day.

Everything talks to me about seven weeks. I am glad Chrissy is here to help me make it home in seven weeks.