It was only a second. Less than. A moment, if that. And then it faded like so many before it.
This instinct, this desire to call and seek advice, to recount a humorous tale, to begrudge an offending neighbor, happens more frequently as of late. Why, I’ll never know. There is no significance to this time of year. I am no more in need or lonely or joyous than normal.
Sometimes, it happens in a dream. I’ll awake, and for a flash, my heart will swell and warm before cruel reality takes up residence in my elation, transforming it into my heavy present.
Perhaps it’s the picture on the mantel. The silver in the china cabinet. The perfume on the dresser.
Most likely, it’s my dependence, my aversion to change, and my weakness, all distant cousins of the pain that inhabits my spirit. They are pitiless and unrelenting. Death mocks my vulnerability. Change lurks behind the shadow of each day. And Dependence sucks my fortitude dry.
Like I did yesterday and last week and last month and last year, I will tuck her away in the crevices of my mind, shove her memory deep down, out of sight, out of reach, out of focus, protected from my false happiness, sheltered from my daily lie. I will do all this until my solitude permits her return and sorrow once again has the freedom to sting my eyes.
And then it will happen again. For a second, I will forget, and my soul will smile. If only for a moment.