Every seventh day is Tuesday.

My child told me today he spoke with his father.

I wondered if he meant in a dream, or in his six year old imagination: where did this conversation take place?

At school, he said. On the blacktop, at recess.

“He was telling me how to make a basket. How to play basketball,” my son said, no smile, no tears. It was matter-of-fact, his re-telling.

And as he does on Tuesdays, he reminded me it is Tuesday, his “day that I hate, do you know why?”

I do know why.

For him, every Tuesday is an anniversary of that death. I can wake and distract: would you like chocolate milk this morning, have you put your homework in your bag, tonight we have to go over your spelling words, tie your shoes in double knots, remember this and please, please, for once, forget that? But no – Tuesday won’t be hushed, and time rolls around predictably and without reprieve. It is Tuesday, again. And again.

My child told me today he spoke with his father, and I reflect on the meanness of Tuesday.