You know, so... sometimes it sucks. I had one helluva achy-breaky heart yesterday but the floor was busy enough that I could stuff it down until the night was over and I was sitting in the locker room, too early to clock out and nothing to do but feel the pain rising. Feel it fill my chest and throat and face till it flowed out of my eyes like the bladder of your drunk auntie's box o' wine. Rose, if you must know. Sweet and sour and buttery and never, never ending.
Crying at work just isn't my thing. My thing is BAD ASS. For real. But oh shit I could not make it stop. So picture me: slumped in a chair right by the door, tears in rivers down my face and my co-workers all WHAT THE FUCK?
I'd cut off an arm for most of these bitches and to my hard to find joy, a few of them were there last night. No one knew what to say yet some of them tried. They stumbled and faltered and made me feel not so insane. And then... then I said it.
One of my most sweetiest sweeties asked me what was wrong. I couldn't even look at her, wouldn't have seen her through my briny eyes if I had tried. But I answered her. I said it.
I said that I wished that my children were normal.
Look. I don't even know what that means. But yesterday, last evening, the thought was eviscerating me. And after it crawled out of my mouth I felt even worse. It wasn't ok. I wasn't ok.
I cried all the way down the elevator, through the corridors, past the kitchen and the morgue, out the door & across the street to the garage. I cried all the way home.
And when I got here? When I got here Lincoln was asleep in his bed on his father's chest; mouth open, hands outstretched and his blond wisps flipping up a teensy bit with every even breath he took. Penelope heard me come in and flitted up the stairs, found me on the couch, curled into my lap and let me kiss her for 72 billion years and then asked me to carry her to bed, tuck her in and say good night.
It wasn't the night I was expecting but it was indeed the night I needed.