I have a crush. Not a smush or a splat. A crush. Pleasant, overwhelming, and overtaking like a sparkling fruit drink on an August porch swing. I can’t stop thinking about someone and it makes me giddy and happy and hopeful that the future really will be better than the past, whether it includes this person for long, or not.
My friend and co-worker, however, had to leave work this morning after the nursing home called to say she’d better come right away — her father wouldn’t make it much longer.
We each get our turn on the roulette wheel, apparently. There was a time, still a visible dot in the rearview mirror, when I slid the dull side of the knife I would use down my wrist, just to get a foreshadowing of how it would feel if I decided to use the blade part sometime.
Sobering things. Infatuation. Love. Separation. Death. Suicidal Grief. And on we go. Sissies need not apply, or if in the thick of it, it’s best to huddle together.