THE HIDDEN COMPANIONSHIP OF SADNESS

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I remember my little boy soak
When the cadence of bubble tides
Would ricochet off tiles
With pop and circumstance
Filling the bathroom
With the song of the tub.

I remember the summer chirp
Of crickets
That pulsated outside my bedroom window
like winged heartbeats
Which would take flight 
and soar in formation
In honor of 
The death of the day.

And I remember the sound of my dad
Laughing at Jackie Gleason 
Like someone was tickling his feet
Transmitted from 
faraway living room island
To the shores of my crib
Which for a one brief second
Erased his blackboard 
And made him forget 
the chalk of everyone
Who he had lost
And still ached for 
Just like I did
Whenever mommy said
Good night 
And would disappear into foyer light
Perhaps forever.


Despite the fact that my job then
Was the pursuit of happiness
I was always acutely aware
even at two
Of the hidden companionship of sadness
Which lived in the secret places of
grown-ups
Who, at the end of each day,
Behind the grieving hush of closed doors,
Would take off their costumes and
Masks
Their party hats and pretty dresses
And look out into the night sky
And wonder 
Is this it?

You learn the art of living with pain 
not when you are old 
But when you are very young
Because it is everywhere
In mommy’s ash tray
In daddy’s headaches
In haunted photo album faces that imitated merriment
And in grandma’s nails 
which she gnawed like a trapped ferret
While she watched American Bandstand
And tried to dodge the rain drops of
Insanity
Until she was drenched.

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