We hardly talked today. There were few exchanges and little effort. We slept in and then laid next to one another, our eyes and toes facing the ceiling, our hearts fragile. She showered and I slowly packed up our shared suitcase. We had breakfast at a little diner and made a few comments about the food. A pregnant woman sat in the booth across from our table, looking so happy and free in her third trimester. On the drive home, we couldn’t even muster a sentence. Sadness hung over us like rain and every time I tried to claw my way back to a rational thought, the sadness seemed to take notice and gush with more force.
But what is there to say? Do we repeat everything that has been said already?
In the past, pre March 24, sadness never stayed around very long. Partly because I’m not one to dwell on the despondency of life. And partly because my nature has always been to overcome it with some form of distraction or positivity. But now, post Margot, the sadness comes and I have zero motivation to overcome it. Nor do I feel any need to get over it. And sometimes, like today, I don’t want to get over it. For there seems to be some kind of strange healing in my new friend named sadness. It feels like this sadness, which lurks around every new hour, hides in every conversation, and stares at me in the distance, just might eventually be my ticket to acceptance.