Sunrise. Just get to another sunrise. It is the only time I am myself. Exhaustion punishes me as I place one foot in front of the other and rise from my bed. You can do this. My reflection looks back at me, skepticism scrawled all over the features of the woman in the mirror. Who was she? I could have sworn I knew her once, yet the old lady looking back at me was not the idealist, social work major fresh from an evening of partying with her friends, all of us convinced we’d save the world. No, the woman looking back at me was set for a day of Linkedin corporate training webinars, looking through resumes of the recently graduated hopefuls, and starting correspondence with “I hope this email finds you well.”

Nothing ever found me well.

At sunrise I was still me. I was not a corporate stooge. I was not a mother of children who only ate half their lunches and came home “starving” from school. At sunrise there was still a chance that this day would be different.

It never was.

It never would be.

It would end the same way all the others did, with me crawling into bed, painted in layers upon layers of expectations. I would drown in all their expectations one day. Pour into me all your concerns, memos, blame for cutting your sandwich the wrong way, guilt for not earning enough, being educated enough, savvy enough to navigate this world I never asked for. Be the receptacle for all their dreams and agendas. What was that? You are tired? Why not just get more sleep? Ha!

Nose to the grindstone. The American dream will be yours one day. One day the sun will rise and you will bloom into who you should have been all along. You’ve only been playing a character so far. This can’t be your life. This can’t be my life.

I want to go home.

The world will keep turning without you. Who needs you? No one. This sunrise isn’t for you. Blink and you can be replaced. No one would miss you.

Footsteps in the hallway feel like weights settling around my feet, dragging me under. The sun was risen and it was time to start another day.

“Mama?” A small voice and its small little arms wrap around me. One more day. He brings me out of my room. I can do this. One of his small steps at time. I can do this again.

I would do this again. And again. And again.

But one day, the sunrise would be mine.

He’s just a child.

Can you please just let him win?

We will compensate you.

I picked my teeth with a femur and dislodged a canvas sneaker out of my molar. They’d made a compelling argument. I’d especially enjoyed the offer of them ceding the western temples to me. All those worshipers, all those sacrifices, all that sweet sweet adoration. The western lands were bountiful in the summer, people became complacent and less came to me with their offerings and pleading words. Even one summer as reigning deity in those temples and I would be set for decades.

A young hero with the experience to become a formidable foe to engage your sunset years.

Let the fellow cut his teeth on your sword, you will be doing him a favor.

Three summers with the western temples.

I’d sent them away without a formal answer. The small hero would be to me by his next afternoon. I had to admit to languishing in boredom for several eons now. One does get tired watching the same show year after year: they are born, they discover hormones, they freak out about retirement funds, they trade their souls to make the remainder of their lives comfortable. On and on it goes. A hero did provide a measure of entertainment.

I flossed out some over gelled hair from a canine.

God answers all prayers, just sometimes the answer is “no”. Same goes for demon gods.

Really they should force feed kids less sugary food. My own blood sugar was going to crash and the mighty demon king would need a mighty demon king nap.

Cookies were always the best way to attract recruits. I glared at the Butterfly Scouts set up across from me in the grocery store entrance. They sat there all cute in their uniforms ready to lure unsuspecting marks into their web of lies and chocolate covered shortbread. My stand was classy, we had chocolate covered pretzels and lemon squares like mature, sophisticated hustlers. I fingered the empty space on my sash. All these badges I’d earned and still this one eluded me.

“This is never going work.” Stampy pouted, nearly invisible next to me.

“People love carbs and sugar, it’ll work. Have some faith.”

“No faith, that’s why I’ve debased myself to working with your pathetic organization.” He pouted some more.

“Our firm has a strong reputation for success. Don’t give up yet.” Aha! A bus of white haired grannies fresh from their retirement village, clutching grocery lists written on the back of used envelopes and plans to buy highlighters for their grandchildren to unwrap as a birthday gift. They slowly, slowly dismounted the bus steps with their canes and walkers. The damn Butterfly Scouts sat up in anticipation but they were going to be disappointed. All these grannies likely had granddaughters that had already fleeced them for cookies already.

“Pardon me, ladies!” I shouted over the whine of low hearing aid batteries. “May I interest you in a lemon square and a wonderful opportunity to help a disenfranchised entity?” I held out my powdered covered bait and a pamphlet.

“You’re a little old to be a Butterfly Scout.” A blue hair with cataract sunglasses took my lemon square and went into the store without hearing my spiel. The grannies cleared out most of my lemon square tray and went into the store. The scouts smirked at me from across the concrete, smugly checking off the orders they’d just made on their stupid smug order sheets. I refilled my tray and tried to tempt a mother with a pair of toddlers with a treat. That was a lost cause. The kids started screaming at the sight of my open air sugar and the mother was clad in haute couture leggings. She would be on a diet. They were all always on a diet.

“Stop going for the old women. I need someone with longevity.” Stampy sulked.

“That mother wasn’t old.” I pushed the pretzels into better view and tried to tempt the grocery cart collectors into hearing my pitch.

“She looked old.” This god was such a defeatist. I couldn’t wait to be rid of him. I’d gotten stuck with his case because I was the best. I’d been able to find a worshiper for my past three accounts. The god of polystyrene had been a difficult one. I’d gotten a whole fast food chain to ignore EPA standards and worship that foamy bastard. I wasn't proud per se but it was still a victory. I’d even found a home for the god of 3rd Grade Recorders. If I ever had to sit through a piercing rendition of “Hot Cross Buns” again rip off my own ears, but I sold that squeaky behemoth and by gods I would sell this one too.

The sun was going down and I began to think about how I would changed tactics tomorrow. Maybe I could put together a few educational school assemblies. That took time and permits and background checks but I could do it.

“What are you selling anyway?” One of the Butterfly Scouts shouted across to me as she counted her winnings for the day.

“Stamps.” I answered. Stampy was trying not to cry in the seat next to me.

“Like ink pads and rubber crafts? That’s weird.” Her little scout friend scoffed.

“No. Stamps that you put on a letter.” Both scouts looked at me in confusion. “Like, to write a friend in another state.” Now they looked at each other in confusion. “A letter that arrives in the mailbox, with a note that has stories and jokes and maybe an invitation to write them back?” More confusion. “Okay, these stamps,” I held out a sheet with hearts on them, “you put them on a letter and can send it to someone all without using a single screen or computer.” Stampy still sulked and tried to hold in his tears. I sensed I might have a sale and started a campaign speech that included sparkly gel pens, trips to craft stores, scented paper, origami, and the potential for glitter and stickers.

The scouts were hooked.

“Only thing you need to make each other official pen pals…is this,” I held up the sheet of stamps, “stamps. What do you say?” Stampy’s eyes gleamed with the glimmer of long lost hope. The scouts’ mothers were thrilled with the idea that their children would be occupied with a non screen activity and that they themselves would not be required to write any physical letters. One mother proffered that it had the potential to be a perfect patch earning activity.

I sat back and relished in a victorious lemon square victory as the scouts dragged their parents to the stationary store with Stampy glittering behind them in the sun. A shiny new patch on my own sash that proudly proclaimed ‘Forever’ in the bottom corner.

Later that night my firm called me up again, I had a new client. The thin wispy thing appeared in my living room. “Hello, I’m the god of drive in movies.”

“Come on in and let’s talk strategy.” I was the best.