Mossify

Oh, dear. Time flies, and I think about writing things, and then I think about the State of the World (Dumpster Fire), and the death of the Pope (who, by all accounts, seemed like a very lovely man and quite open-minded for a leader of the Catholic church), and about the deporting of toddlers who are in fact US citizens (help, my heart), and other assorted Terribleness, and I can't bring myself to write things. 

And then another dust storm comes through and I feel as though my brain is filled with the fine grit that covers my car and my front doorstep and my nasal passages, and the pressure changes of the air cause my skull to squash my dusty brain so painfully that I just lie on the couch and do Nothing except contemplate whether I should take prescription migraine meds or save them for when things are worse, and whether my kidneys are going to shrivel up and die if I take any more ibuprofen. 

Sometimes when the headache dulls, I think about my People whom I haven't seen in far too long, and I acknowledge to myself how much I miss them (because, apparently, there needs to be Conservation of Suffering, and if my brain doesn't hurt, I must make my heart hurt instead?).  I wonder if I should tell them I miss them, but what purpose would that serve? To make them feel bad somehow, for not living closer or visiting more? Oh, no. The last thing I want is for someone else to feel guilty or burdened by my personal wants.

Everyone has their own life to lead. The only story in which I am the main character is my own. 

And so I lie on the couch, watching the bunnies hop, slowly growing mental moss as I await better times and the end of the windy season. 

Know that though I am quiet, I am still here, mossy and secretly soft, waiting for the gentle mist, the glow of the evening light, and you.