From where I sit. . .

I dreamed a dream . . .

That God would be forgiving. . .
Young and unafraid. . . .
No ransom to be paid. . .
No wine untasted. . .
Tigers come at night. . .
Voices soft as thunder. . .
They tear you both apart. . .
Turn your dreams to shame. . .

Still, I dream . . .

The dreams that cannot be. . .

There are storms we cannot weather. . .

I had a dream my life would be so different . . .

Life has killed the dream I dream.

I realize that we all have much to be grateful for amidst this pandemic of pain and sorrow. We have  a roof over our heads, jobs, health, and more. Meanwhile, #23 is fighting for his life at Loyola after being hit by a train. His siblings cannot gain entry to visit him and are struggling. These are real problems. Health care providers on the front lines, intubating young people, exposing themselves to the virus, while sit, wallowing. I am so ashamed.

My kids need my help, my husband needs my consolation, and I have very little to give them. Honey Pie's face is breaking out; she is angry, ripping her work.  Ladybug is an explosive mess. The yelling is unbearable and so reminiscent of childhood. It is something that I cannot stop. I want to run, but cannot. In these moments of tense desperation, I appreciate the struggle that those with predilections for substance use are enduring. I appreciate the pain felt by those who cut, or enter into such penetrating darkness that hope seems untenable.  I, too, want to escape. I want to crawl into my bed, cover my head, and stay there.

I feel like that Mother's Day coffee mug, that has a crack in the side. Filling it one  more times and I will shatter on the counter top, never to truly hold. My mother's laughter that morphed into a blanket of tears is beginning to feel all too familiar and threadbare.

And so here I sit, devoid of warmth, devoid of dreams, wondering what tomorrow will bring.