She should have listened to her mother.
She sits there staring at the exact spot of drawers where they lay waiting. Dictating her days, ruling her life and running her thoughts. She squints her eyes, heart pounding. It is time, it is time...is it really time?
When did it come to pass where these envelops dictates her life. They interrupt her slumber, seeped into her nightmares, and mapped out her routines.
Today she can ignore them. How happy that made her feel. Her lips draw up at the corners, the beginning of a smile until her eyes falls on the calendar.
It's cyclical, but not lunar. It's counted in days. They counted her days. Every three of four days, an envelop must go. By stamps or by car, they must go.
First she lays the check books in order, phone at the ready and starts to dial. Her pen poised, ready to write down what she hears when the androgynous voice on the phone telling her,
"You have two-thousand one-hundred fifty-nine dollars and sixty cents in this account. To listen to all transactions, press one..."
She carefully writes down these words into numbers. To each and every account she'd lined up on the table, she dials the phone and listens. Then she reaches for a fresh paper off her printer and draws a line in the middle of it. A straight, heavy line down the middle. She lines up her envelops, taps them on the table to straightened them, and start looking at each one.
On the upper left hand corner, she writes notes when she first receive her bills. It's the date when the payment is due, and the amount. She writes them down, added them up as she waits for the next computerized voice to tell her what numbers to write.
Some months are more harrowing than the others. She writes with a flourish, all carefree and unburdened. Some months, there' s more envelops than her money could cover, and she writes with a stilted grace, all controlled and firm.
In the back of her head, is the constant worry, will she make it, will she lost it, where will all these lead? Constant worry.
It's synonymous with breathing, these taking stock of the envelops in the drawer of her desk. Third drawer from the bottom on her left when she sits on down her desk.
It's three feet away from her toes as she curls in bed each night. Whispering "bills, bills, bills..." as her blood flows to her veins.
Labels: Bills
enough to understand anything.