The Slow-Cooked Sentence

A day that was not today

Rachael Conlin Levy

In the future, somewhere, a heater exhales, a typewriter taps and rain beats a muffled rhythm against the windows. A neighbor girl knocks on the door, and her voice and my daughter’s voice ring sweet and clear as bells as they leave.


A door shuts. Coffee beans are ground, and my youngest turns in his sleep, sighs. Another door opens. Shadows are unearthed as a metal bowl clicks and another son whispers that his stomach aches. Go back to bed, I say in return, my own voice cottony with sleep.


I record the scratch of pen on paper, the scratch of metal from the garbage truck as it crawls down the street, and the sweet-sour smell of my youngest’s sleeping breath.
He turns again, but this time his eyes open. Hi, Mom, he says. Is it tomorrow? Yes, I say, this is tomorrow.

One response to “A day that was not today”

  1. It’s these simple small things that make a life, and that’s why they are special.

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