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
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
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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Every night we sit on the couch. Your arm around my shoulders, my knees pulled towards my chest. We eat dinner. We talk about the day. The dog sleeps, belly up nestled on top of our sock feet. And eve