I used to be important. The bright morning of the week, the fresh start. But, as people got more complicated and life grew ever more dense with tedium, the beginning I brought them was resented.

I look over the city, hearing the tired groans of every person waking up for their jobs, each parent readying the kids for school. It hurts my heart that they lament their lives so much, that the mere beginning of another chapter is a burden instead of a gift.

There is one boy, who I seek out when I need a smile. He’s in third grade math right now, swinging his feet, doodling messy action heros on his worksheet as the cold morning light drifts in through the window. I drift in with it.

Right now, he’s thinking about the x-men episode he saw last night while he draws. But his friends are chatting behind him.

“Mondays are so stupid. I wish that it was always like, Labor Day or something. So we have three weekend days.”

He turns around fast.

“It’s not Monday’s fault that jobs and schools start on Monday! People decided to do that! And then we’d all start on Tuesday and then Tuesday would be stupid.”

His friends laugh a bit at his earnestness, and I smile. It’s nice to have one little defender.

In a time of morning-haters and late-night-regretters, it’s that much more meaningful to see a boy who defends something he doesn’t quite understand just because it doesn’t feel fair.