Tomorrow

The time is written on the calendar in black pen. I haven’t written the details down for this one, only the time. Every day this week, I’ve glanced at that time and felt my insides clench. Every day this week, I’ve glanced at that time and begged Hashem to help me get there. To let me reach that time.

I already know what my day will be like tomorrow. I will stare blankly at my computer screen, coffee growing lukewarm next to me. I will look up, unfocused, when my supervisor asks for an update on my work. My eyes will be glued to the small numbers on the bottom of my screen, watching them change with agonizing slowness. And then, finally, it will be time for me to leave for my appointment — earlier than I really need to, but late enough that it’s still reasonable if anyone asks. I’ll leave then because I just won’t be able to sit still for another minute.

The car ride will pass in a blur. I might cry. I might whisper perakim of Tehillim. I might just plead with Hashem.

When I arrive, the receptionist will already know my name and tell me to take a seat. I will head straight to the front row, like I always do. I won’t want an opportunity to make eye contact with anyone or to see their expressions. Not the relaxed, casual faces. Not the red-rimmed eyes and silent tears. I can never again be able to sit in this office, relaxed and unburdened, and it is my fervent hope that I’ll never again be the one with the red-rimmed eyes and tears down my cheeks.