examine the heart
the holidays remind me of hospitals–or maybe hospitals remind me of the holidays. the point is: we’re here again. our home has become an empty waiting room, kept warm by coffee cups and cheap christmas trees. eventually, we have guests. these strangers search for meaning in the midst of tragedy; try to be polite when our world is burning; grasp for some sense of normalcy when nothingnothingnothing about this is normal.
i’m tired. so tired.
one day, she asks if i believe in prayer. it’s such a simple kindness, to be asked. if i were honest–if i were less afraid–i would tell her i don’t know what i believe anymore. instead, i nod. maybe she knows i once believed in something. maybe that still counts.
dad tells you to get some sleep. he says it always helped him to think about the beach.
i hope the ocean is kind. i hope it lulls you to sleep. i hope you can feel the sun. i hope.