A day he won’t have

Anthony Wilson, , , , ,
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I had bumped into a friend at the cash machine. We greeted each other, as we always do, with a handshake, then set about putting the world to rights. My work, his work; my family, his. Politics. Geopolitical destruction. The New Ice Age. All on a bright Saturday morning, traffic and shoppers humming around us, business-like as a dog, to use Robert Pinsky’s phrase.

As you do.

And then something that I was not prepared for. It turned out that he had been ill, briefly and seriously, and that I had known nothing about it. Profuse apologies followed, batted off with a wave as though I had merely missed a dinner party. Think nothing of it. How could you have known? We told no one. And with speed we moved on to other things, something lighter, the rise of Islamic State perhaps, to break the tension.

As you do.

And then he said something that I think is still changing me. He began to speak of a mutual friend, one we had lost some months previously, of how he was missing him: ‘Even with all that going on -and you know what this is like, having gone through it yourself- and with all the crap that is still going on, I still need to remind myself daily that a bad day at work is a day he won’t have.’

And that stopped me in my tracks. I began to find something pricking behind my eyes, the slightest increase of pressure in my temples, as though pushed by the gentlest of vices. My woes did not leave me, but I had the strong impression of seeing them from far away, as through a telescope from the wrong end. Mixed into this sensation was the pleasure, as well as the pain, of knowing that while the woes were in a different place, and that they were not going to vanish, I now had a choice about how to see them differently.

A day he won’t have. Like my friend, I need to say this to myself daily (sometimes hourly) when I sense the world and my feelings about its woes threatening to overwhelm me. Which is often. A day he won’t have.

And we shook hands and said say hi to the family and went on our way into our Saturdays.

As you do.

Published by Anthony Wilson

I am a lecturer, poet and writing tutor. I work in teacher and medical education at the University of Exeter. My anthology Lifesaving Poems was published by Bloodaxe Books in 2015. In 2012 I published Riddance (Worple Press), a collection of poems, and Love for Now (Impress Books), a memoir, about my experience of cancer. The Wind and the Rain, my sixth collection of poems, is available now from Blue Diode Publishing. My current research project, funded by the Foyle Foundation, is Young Poets' Stories: https://youngpoetsstories.com/. This blog is archived by the British Library.

13 Comments

  2. Thank you. This is what I needed to hear today. I have a tough day in front of me and was turning the possible courses of action in my head, in hamster-like fashion, when I read this. Funnily enough yesterday was the funeral of a much loved aunt. Having to face an unreasonable and angry boss snaps back into perspective…because today is a day she won’t have. Yes.

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  4. I know this experience well. It keeps happening to me and round me, as well. The older I get, while still having days, the more I have friends who aren’t having them. But that particular expression (A day he won’t have) reminded me immediately of Larkin’s poem ‘The Mower’ where he kills the hedgehog by mistake: ‘Next morning I got up and it did not.’ The whole poem, which I’m sure you know anyway, is here http://www.wussu.com/poems/pltm.htm (probably illegally). I think of that line each time I hear of another death. And now you’ve given me another line too.

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  6. I have a Zen calligraphy, “Every day is a good day,” on my wall because I don’t get it. This takes me there. Just now I stood at a different angle from the day I had yesterday, and saw how much good was in it.

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  12. Pingback: Blogging about not blogging – Josephine Corcoran

  13. Dear Anthony

    A few months ago I listened to a programme on Radio Four about about a photographer who had stepped on a mine in Afghanistan and lost both legs and an arm. I immediately promised myself never to moan or complain again and so far (except on poetry blogs!) I haven’t.

    Best wishes from Simon

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