The only thing on the wall was a large, white desk-type calendar with x's as large as my fist crossing off each past day. The first eight were heavy and strong, followed by two squiggly looking x's. The next two were sort of angry looking. Today's date is the 17th; that puts the balance of x's at five, and they were more resigned in their appearance.
Thinking of the calendar in my loved one's room at the mental health facility makes my lip quiver. I know she hasn't been there, against her will, for 17 days; the first eight x's weren't hers. It makes me wonder how long the prior occupant had been crossing off days on the month before. Did that person also have their bags packed and ready to go home every morning? Did they, too, think their presence in such a place was all a mistake? Did they hear voices through wires in their heads telling them what to do? After all, that's "normal", right?
To me, the calendar was a sad indication of time spent without freedom to roam, and with too much time to listen to those voices. To my loved one, though, it provided a way to be certain of one thing: the day. During my visit, I was told at least five times, "Today is Friday". If my loved one was able to have even the minutest amount of security, peace, or joy from that, then I'm grateful.
This was a pendant I had made long ago with a simple charm on beach glass pieces. I just thought it might go well with my mood today.
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