The Cottonwoods sit in a hollow and can’t be seen from Union Rd. They are heavy with mistletoe. All of our prayers remain unanswered. It has not rained for 9 weeks. All I have to do is light one match and a conflagration would clear acres along the riverbed, exploding fist-sized rocks with its heat, making noise that couldn’t be ignored.

I made too much noise in his life. He complained all the time that he was tired and could not concentrate. He’d turn off music, even on road trips. If decorum called for it, he’d listen to classical music. What choice did he have? Just keep down the noise. It’s difficult to tread water in a shame pool; this one is so very deep. All concentration is needed to not drown.The mind can’t be bothered with incoming love or joy. It is just too hard to try.

Right now it’s so quiet I can hear the sun shine. No breeze rustles the dusty trees. He is in the shame pool, and someone is standing on his head. It isn’t me. It never was.

Tags: shame