My sadness walks around with me, mostly bearing up well, mostly bearing up bravely.
She gets up with me in the morning, washes her hair just like I do, brushes her teeth just like I do, and follows me out the door. But while I take in the blue September, it's still January for her. For her it has been January for four thousand days, maybe more.
Mostly she doesn't bother anyone. Mostly she doesn't bother me. She's as silent as the unbelief she was born from. I don't really notice what she does all day, while I write a peppy subject line, browse photos, market a trip to Argentina. I suppose she sits at the window and daydreams until it's time to follow me home again. She doesn't mind sitting out while I chat with my friends. Sometimes I think she's humming melodies in her mind.
Mostly she keeps up, even though the air is colder and heavier in her eternal January, even though she is so much smaller than me. But sometimes she gets tired. Sometimes I feel her arm slip around my waist and she leans on me. I have to slow down.
It might make me angry at first. I might try to ignore her and keep up the pace, bitterly willing her to get it together again. She doesn't, of course, she trips, throws both her arms around my waist, and I drag her until her little cry chokes my heart. I remember how small she is.
Sometimes I have to stop and let her lay her head on my shoulder.
Wouldn't you sing yourself a lullaby if you had the chance? I'm slowing down for a while. I'm stopping for just a little while. Because a little patience and a little empathy is the least I can give to a girl who so desperately needs my love. And I hope, if you need to, you'll sit down beside us, holding your own hand.
