Television

This happens.
I put away the glue gun. I shut it up in the cupboard and I hope that I haven't disrupted the order of my mother's craft. I worry about it, at the back of my head. She would never say anything if I did, but it is precious to her. And I am someone who treads lightly in the worlds of others. I may be naive. I might not have a quick tongue. I am too concerned with aesthetics. Deposits of flaws crop up constantly in my being. But I do not stomp around in the gardens of other people's thoughts.
The TV is covered in scraps of newspaper, and it's face is vacant and empty. Hours from now, I will sit in a crowded classroom, rewatch tonight's event on another television, and I will feel the same way as this costumed piece of equipment does now.
I forgot to ask for someone to turn it on. I neglected (on purpose?) to ask for help. It didn't reach it's full potential, and after, everyone looked on, half-satisfied with something too normal and too weird. The worst part: it was not a misunderstanding. It was a valid observation.
The scissors return to my desk. I tuck the roll of scotch tape to bring to school. Accidentally stolen tape. I would like to say that I had a plan to make things better. That, given more time, things could have gone differently. But in this moment, I am not so certain. Benevolence was not given a habitat to grow. And it's awful that the bad weed destroys the garden, but it does. You can't not see the dandelion. Or perhaps that is just me. I fixate on it.
I have not learned to say, "You are wrong," with any sort of conviction. That sounds like an admirable thing, but it leads to apologizing. Needlessly. It leads to back tracking. To nights and happenings such as these. People get in your garden.
In the morning, we will clean up the mess, and it will be better, somehow, in the light. And in the labor. I can clean a place. I can keep going. I can keep my head down. I will sweep and laugh, and the sun will be shining, and on Saturday, I will go to the symphony and play.
But tonight, I am putting away the glue gun, and regarding the TV. When I see it, bedecked and bruised, I'm struck by the appropriate nametag. And with old, worn anger, and a someday resignation burning in the future, I start to peel the newspaper from it's face.