I was sorting winter things for my son and caught myself putting in something he had already said he did not need. It was warm, hardly worn, and I could list three reasons to send it. I could also remember those shoes arriving from Mama when I was small, too big and bought with money she had worked for, and how refusing them would have felt ungrateful. A packed box can carry more instructions than the person packing it intends. I left the sweater on the chair while I finished the rest. It is still there. I may ask him again, although I can already hear him saying he answered me the first time. He would be correct.

A customer wanted to argue about a delay I had already explained twice, then asked the younger teller beside me the same question as if I had been withholding the answer for amusement. I kept my voice level and let her repeat the information. She looked at me afterwards and rolled her eyes, which made me nearly smile at the window. I was still vexed when I got home. Not shouting angry, just tired of being required to sound pleasant while somebody works hard at misunderstanding me. My husband asked what was wrong and I said a long day. He put the kettle on without trying to get the story out of me. I appreciated that. I still wanted to complain, though.

Choir practice left me more tired than I expected, but not in the way a day at the counter does. Holding a long note made me notice how little air I use when I'm talking through glass all day, keeping my voice even for the next customer. By the second hymn my shoulders had come down and I could feel the sound properly in my chest. We repeated one passage until the words almost stopped meaning anything. I liked it anyway. Drove home without the radio and still had the alto part running under my breath. My daughter asked what song it was, then said I was humming it wrong when I tried to sing the melody. Different part, child.