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181: House Calls

I don’t often have heavy days.

When sadness makes her house calls

I’m usually so far down the list

that she doesn’t get to me.

She spends so much time

with the man who plays the

sad saxophone on 86th street,

that she rarely knocks at my door.

But when she does,

I come crawling to you

wobbly and off-kilter

wondering how in the world

anyone ever

gets through the day

with all this


And you ask me what will make it better

and I cannot answer that

because sadness makes decisions

quite impossible.

But then you remind me

of muscle memory

and how it helps in moments like these,

and yes of course, you are right.

For once I baked cookies and it helped.

And once I took a bath

and once I called home

and once I sat on the front steps

like a cat in the sun and it helped.

So I will do all of these things again

and be such a rude host,

disregarding sadness all day long,

never offering to refill her tea,

that she finally decides to up and leave-

taking her and her raincloud to the next poor soul.

And when the door shuts behind her

you and I, we will dance.

We will dance

and we will laugh with obnoxious vigor

and we will sing

and we will say many prayers that night

that sadness has gone,

but even many more

for those whom sadness has found.

I love you.

I mean it.

It gets better.

Written by Sarah Speed // Writing the Good

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Hi, thanks for stopping by!

I'm Sarah (Are) Speed, the writer behind Writing The Good. I'm so honored you're here! To get more poems, follow @writingthegood on Facebook and Instagram! 

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