I made a promise,
that I would stop thinking of my life
as a holding pattern
between good news and bad news
or lately, being bad news and worse news.
And I will live in the moment for what it is. Not what I hope will come.
And I’m trying.
But it’s not easy on a Sunday night,
when you have left the room,
because of the neighbor’s television
and I’ve given up
and listen to the mumble through the wall,
knowing she is old
and probably going deaf,
and how little compassion I really have. And how terrible that makes me.
I tell you later, in bed,
that this year has started out pretty bad.
Sad and frustrating, I describe it.
And the writing, which is all I’ve got most days,
is letting me down.
And you agree and we lay in bed,
not touching, staring at the ceiling
and I realize I probably lied.
Places can turn their back on you. Just like a person can.
It’s then when you realize that the foundation is bad
and rotting, that termites have fed through the ground
and you can see how the whole thing will look
when that last plank snaps and it falls like a dying thing.
I realize over and over again, with horror,
that there is no guarantee that any of this will work out.
And now, I don’t think I can live in this moment for very long.
I don’t think anyone should.