It is always there, the sadness. Even in moments spent with my kids, when they make me laugh or I just watch them from afar or listen to their conversations, when I feel great joy and comfort from that, the sadness hovers. Sometimes, the sadness feels insurmountable. It is physical, in my gut and swims through my veins, a heavy shroud like a second skin. I've been told to get help, too. What help is there? I help myself. I have only myself.
I see him sitting there in the same shadowy spot day after day, a blanket covering his head. It reminds me of the time I watched a caged gorilla in the zoo sit inside a busted cardboard box, looking stunned and stagnate, eyes fixated on nothing, repeatedly grabbing hay with his massive hand and flinging it onto his outstretched legs.
I burn another stick, watching the smoke rise. I want to lay in a ball on the floor, warmed by love, and drift off to sleep with visions of smoke rings rising, then twisting, then dissipating like effortless calm in a perfect world.
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