Village Routine

Sitting alone in her room, Claudia stares at the clothes spilling out of her wardrobe. It reminded her of a time when she used to have a life, at least be an active participant in life. Striking a match to light another cigarette. The alarm starts blaring. Its been years since she has been woken by an alarm. Rather naturally at least 20 minutes before hand. Still, she sets it. A calm routine in it.

Switching it off she continues her endless gaze until she the cigarette reaches its butt. Putting it into the ashtray she rises to ignore her wardrobe full of clothes, opts to stay in her pajamas. She makes her first cup of coffee and sits on the front veranda to watch as the sleepy little town begins to wake. The frost slowly melts outside the shadow of the house as the sun creeps higher in the sky. Cars begin crossing the town bridge more frequently. She waves to the cars that drive by in front of her house while the scattering and noise of school aged children begin to make their way to the one main bus stop of the village. Another cigarette down she walks back to her room and finds her work uniform. A glance in the mirror shows she is acceptable. This town doesn't expect much. Add make-up and 'you think too much of yourself". Locking the front door she heads out the back to get in the car off for another day of the same monotonous work.

She returns home. Tired. "Too tired" is the excuse to avoid dinner at her youngest sons, and to see her new granddaughter. She had promised to help out more with the baby. "Too tired" had helped get her out of that one too. A glass of wine in her dressing gown with the music blaring is more appealing. Tiredness may be the reason but staying up until 11pm shows little evidence the excuse has any form of validity. The afternoon she sits on the side veranda and watches, once more, as the sleepy village begins its night-time routine. The children return after the school bus drops them back. They play. They argue and trade in various activities until the street lights come on. Next the neighbor will return home after stopping at the pub for a few drinks. Definitely over the limit he drives the 2 minute, 3 turn drive home. Safe in the knowledge he doesn't get the chance to go more than 40km/h for more than half a second and is unlikely to see another car. Or maybe, just simply, because he's been doing it for the last 40 years.

3 wines down and half a pack of cigarettes later, she is reminded by the time rather than hunger, that she needs to eat. Forcing herself to at least a piece of toast. It's not much. She sees the scales though. Her weight is dropping. How can she be sad about that? She's wanted to lose some weight. She turns up the 70's music as the fourth glass of "card-board-deaux" is poured.

A sleepy little village she longs to see the end of. The desire (or at least, the reason she uses) that her children shall always have a home, should anything happen, keeps her rooted there. A tear escapes, she lets them flow in a rare occurrence. She is alone here. No one will walk in. There's no one left to be strong for. She struggles to find reason in what she is doing here. Why she can't just curl up and the pain be gone. How many cigarettes would it take? Glasses of wine?