Piles of Ash

I don’t know how extroverts do it. I have been “on” since 7:30 am. Running meetings, teaching kids, socializing at various events and now I am depleted and spent. The house is dark expect for a few dim lights, and the red wine is perfectly tepid; Elliott Smith songs fit snug like a beloved blanket.

I cry for her at the weirdest parts of the day. In the staff bathroom. On the drive to work. Alone in my classroom. Some tears of joy, the others a bit more painful. I have so much to unload, but I will hold on while she is holding on. Waiting with baited breath for her to let go.

Every time I think of her my heart fills with more love and joy that I can handle. A small part of me hopes that I will cry every time I think of her. Like our own private cleansing. I see her smile and feel her humor, and the sobbing begins. Her leaving forcing me to unload. She empties me and fills me back up with whatever it is that I need to carry on.

It’s scary the masks we wear to pretend like we aren’t constantly falling apart. We are just piles of ash held together in the urns of our skin. Stardust waiting to be returned to forgotten infernos. “With hidden cracks that don’t show, but just constantly just grow.”

The are no words to name these things. There are songs that come close. The darkness. The night and a new tomorrow.