treading lightly


    For days in a row, now, the sun
    has shone brightly on me, making
    me begin to believe it is summer:
    a season of light. I finished two
    two projects in the house yesterday;
    today I painted a room that has been
    waiting for weeks to be a different
    color, and tended to my garden,
    watering the small green tomatoes
    that hold such promise. I even
    made a soup from left overs in the
    fridge. I feel awake, aware, and even
    useful, and I find it hard not to wait
    for the other foot to fall – the foot
    that stomps daylight into darkness
    and kicks me into free fall, into the
    days of unpainted rooms, undone
    projects, and unplanted gardens.
    “How do you feel?” the doctor asked.
    “Like myself,” I answered. Why, then,
    do I let myself believe the lie that is
    my depression, the lie that says it can
    permanently change the weather
    of my heart when I know it will
    come (and go) like the Dixie storms
    that punctuate my Carolina afternoons;
    the dark thunder clouds are real and
    they are temporary; the sun, however
    comes up every morning — it’s true.



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