I remember days years vacations holidays birthdays by the bad mood I was in when we got on I 95 headed for Maine, Florida, Wherever. A meltdown on Christmas Eve left me silent and withdrawn on Christmas day, or Easter was not pastels and light but tears where nobody could see me hiding in the basement bathroom.
Stress. It’s a funny thing and sinks in like a stain that permeates thoughts and heartbeats and words that stumble and jam up rather than coming out in pure expressions. Between my brain and my mouth the evenly spaced letters fall over a cliff and are rearranged in a demented heap of nonsense at the bottom.
How in the world will I take care of Lily? I have not yet felt that relief of knowing she’ll survive. That bright face with its glistening eyes and eager panting are a challenge rather than signs of happiness. In my mind is a voice: can you run enough to make her happy? Can you teach her enough to satisfy her intelligence and need for a task? Is she happy in the basement with Hershey and Bandit but Bandit scares her?Am I worrying too much? Why can’t it be like the bar where you fix a bad day with a beer?