I am having days that might be called good days, good being a relative term, defined differently than it would have been six months ago. I am surrounded by people whom I love, people who love me. I have work to do that I love, actually. I get emails and real mail, one thing or another every few days, that keep me going. I have a couple of people to whom I can pour out my heart, say the things which most people cannot bear to hear.
And yet . . .
as I am writing a take-home exam for seminary, my husband pushes a tax return across the table for my signature, as administrator of the estate of my child. The child who a year ago was exulting over his first refund.
Most of my classmates are not going home in the evenings to documents like that.
It's not that I feel sorry for myself. It's just what my life is now.
And sometimes I just want to stretch my body out in the desert, to lie as still as possible in the dry sand as a rattlesnake slides by, and to let the sun bake away the waves of sadness that ripple visibly through the heat.