Healing, not healed

I sit balanced on the edge of a rock wall for longer than I should

until my tail bone aches

And I find it difficult to walk fully upright

I find myself reluctant to want to talk to people that I have not seen in a while.

I don’t want to rehash old memories. Or explain that I had a son, but that he died.
I don’t want them to be sorry, or sad, or to look at me with sad eyes.
I listen. I watch. I smile.
I say something, and I don’t know what.
I want the presence of people… but not the sound.
I walk along the ocean, the bay… and I listen to the sound of the waves coming in.
A roar… a crash… a rhythm. And the sound of gulls. And grains of sand that sparkle.
It is timeless. And I think of Dad… and Paul… and Ethan.
And that he could have spent this time with his cousins. And they would have laughed loudly.
I eat the wrong foods. And too much of it. But I guess it seems to help.
Music helps. Sometimes.
Painting… focusing on the work. That helps.
I guess even work helps.
I stop. I breathe.

I balance a rock. I balance another. I try to choose an orientation that is odd, where the top looks bigger than the bottom.

I shower and wash the salt out of my hair and the sand off my feet and I watch the water go down the drain. The shower head is low and I must bend and bow my head to get it wet.


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