Tom appears at death’s door on Monday.
“Miss Jan,” he tells me, “I did not want to come to work today.”
“I understand, Tom,” I say.
Tuesday arrives with his long face. “Miss Jan, I did not want to get out of bed today.”
“I understand, Tom.”
A winter storm ushers in Wednesday with Tom’s greeting, “Jan – Jan, I might have to leave early today if the weather gets bad.” His voice is filled with hope.
With Thursday I see the first spark of positive energy on Tom’s cherubic face, though he still laments, “Miss Jan, I don’t think I can make it another day.”
“Give it a try, Tom,” I encourage him. “Give it a try.”
“Good morning, Sunshine!” Tom greets me as he bounds onto the floor, heralding Friday and the pending weekend as though Monday never existed nor will ever come again, continuing a thing reliable: “I did not want to come to work today.”