Worry

B writes, I am no longer sobbing every day, finally realized that this IS life not some bad dream that I will wake from

And it IS like a dream, the flow of random events, the stream of nonsense we strive to make sense of later, in a bar, at a table, on the phone, in our minds as we wash dishes, chewing over in our head what happened what happened what I could have what I should have why they should have how I might have when it ought to have why it, why oh why did it...

We say dogs worry a bone but their gnawing ceases when, finally, we trip over the abandoned bit of cow thigh that has been licked clean, every morsel gone. Oh to be a dog whose worrying ends! Our minds relentlessly find fuel in the slightest gesture, the briefest word. At five it can be what is lurking, being made a fool of, being left behind, not being able to, not knowing what to, not trusting not not not. At eighty-five it can be what is lurking, when it might strike, what will happen after that and then and then and then...

Worry's a rushing river we can drown in, our very cells choking on what we can't let go. Cells can't refuse as we re-light the wick, re-fuse the fire, keep it going the mind churning along looking always looking for flotsam to cling to to save to escape this slow suffocation. So busy clenching we forget the path along the shore, the one step by one, one crisis by one, one sorrow by one, one fright by one, one joy by one, one doubt by one one one.

What can we do but remember we're still alive and breathing. Sigh of relief. One breath then another and another till we remember this is who we are, a bundle of nerves tangled in frail magnificence.