I carry my computer back and forth to work every day. It weighs down my shoulders, I shift it from one side to the other as I walk, ponderously, trying to hold my back straight.
At work, I open one by one every day the same online documents, working spreadsheets and planning documents and letters. When I get home, at 9 or 10 or 11, the first thing I do is close them, one by one. I know I will open them all again tomorrow, but it is the only way I know how to detach, to say: I am home now. I have a few hours to myself. I have a few hours to just be here, before sleep, and the day begins again. Those few hours are a luxury, but a necessary one for me; I would not take a campaign Blackberry if they offered it.
I click the tab x’s, watch the pages disappear. I arch my back like a cat, trying to work out the soreness. I roll my neck, and wince when my chin meets my shoulder.
