Jun 10
I have a pit of deep sadness in me, that, like a child, claws and weeps for acknowledgment and attention.
And, like a child, it must be attended faithfully. It must have company to sit in the floor, pat its head, cradle it in their arms.
It is a spilt cup of milk upon the kitchen floor of my heart. A tragedy, but not a permanent one.
It is there, screaming, crying, agonizing "how can it ever get any better?" And quietly, gently I take it into my arms and remind it "because it always does."
