Crying

When she’s having a bad day, the tension inside the house feels worse than the temperature drop outside the front door.  Tension present enough that we can almost touch it, elusive enough that we don’t always acknowledge it with words.

Her crying, like a battering ram, assaults my being, a hot bloom of outrage burgeons in my chest.  Listening to her cry is agonizing.  While sadness spills from her eyes, pours from her mouth, mine begins in my heart, reaches down past my stomach, touches my toes. 

When tension and tears hover in the air like an ugly mist and I feel like a weather vane blown around by the winds of turmoil, I head toward laundry needing folded, counters needing scrubbed, problems I can solve, small surmountable tasks, although I’d really rather curl up on the couch and let the day pass without my participation.

And when the days with her are limited, worse than all the sadness is the shame that follows those feelings of a simple, temporary escape, a guilt that is similarly difficult to acknowledge with words.

JEB